Then You Hide - Roxanne St. Claire Page 0,3

jail for murder.”

He nodded, returning to the file. “The mother needs a bone-marrow transplant to live, right?”

“Correct. But Miranda isn’t a match. We hope Vanessa Porter is.”

He studied the photo clipped to the file, intrigued. “How’s that?”

“She’s Miranda’s sister. Eileen Stafford, the birth mother, revealed that Miranda was one of triplet girls sold through the Sapphire Trail operation. Vanessa Porter is another of the three.”

Wade looked at the photo of an impeccably dressed blonde striding down Wall Street, a cell phone pressed to her ear, a sleek briefcase clutched in her other hand, no-nonsense black glasses completing the look. He skimmed through a few more pages, which described a single, workaholic money manager living in Manhattan.

“According to your men in California, Jack Culver thinks this Eileen Stafford might be innocent.”

“Jack is not one of my men,” Lucy said coolly. “He’s simply a PI who initially launched this investigation on behalf of Eileen Stafford. Her guilt or innocence isn’t my concern.” Nothing that involved former Bullet Catcher Jack Culver was her concern. “I promised to locate Vanessa Porter, and I have. She’s a passenger on a Utopia Cruise Line sailing clipper, currently cruising the Leeward Islands. The next stop is St. Kitts. I’m offering you a few days in the islands, a pretty blonde to persuade to meet her birth mother, and a chance to think about what you want to do with your life.”

He glanced at the pages again, returning to the photo. “How much time do I have?”

“Not much. Stafford is in a coma and fading fast. If we’re going to reunite her with her daughters and try to find a bone-marrow match, we have to move quickly. There may not be time for Vanessa to finish her Caribbean cruise—which could be a sticking point, since she evidently hasn’t taken a day off in six years.”

“What if she doesn’t believe me? A financial wizard will probably demand irrefutable proof. We have, what…” He pulled a paper out. “A list of babies born in this farmhouse and sold sometime in the summer of 1977. No birth certificate? No legal docs?”

“We have something.” She touched her nape. “Under her hair, there should be a small tattoo. Evidently, all three girls got them at birth. Once she hears the story, her sister Miranda is hoping she’ll have a soft heart.”

“This Wall Street high roller doesn’t look like she has a soft anything.”

“You’ll never know until you find her.”

He closed the file and stood. “All right. I’m in. Tell Donovan I’m sorry I stole his gimme job, and thanks for the R-and-R.”

Lucy stood to shake hands. “Thank you, Wade. Sage will arrange for the Bullet Catchers jet to get you down there, and she’ll hook you up with an international phone and a password for our locator system to track you. She’ll also have all the necessary paperwork for you and a bodyguard’s license to carry concealed anywhere in the world.”

There was skepticism in his smile. “And here I thought I’d never have to touch my S-and-W.”

She came around her desk and gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder. “Only in extreme situations.”

“Exactly what I’m trying to avoid.”

After Wade left, Lucy reread the confidential report on Budapest she’d managed to get from the agency. It had been a wreck, but they still believed in Wade Cordell, and so did she. This trip to the French West Indies was a brilliant way to remind him of how great the Bullet Catchers job could be. Then he’d sign, and they’d both be happier.

If not, she’d still be looking for a fearless, intelligent security professional with unparalleled sharpshooting skills for her staff. And Wade Cordell, a man she admired and respected, would still be trying to make peace with the fact that his greatest talent was killing people.

Vanessa Porter was not his type.

Not that Wade didn’t appreciate a tall, sexy blonde as much as the next male, especially when her black tank top and white shorts hugged some sweet curves. But something about her irritated him—even from fifty feet away with clusters of tourists separating them across Port Zante.

The horn-rimmed glasses? A power play. The speed of her trajectory? That screamed Yankee to him. The little left-right sway in her backside that grabbed the eye of every man she passed? He despised women who drew attention to themselves. Her generous breasts were more than the requisite handful, her hair needed a six-inch trim and something to keep it from flying all over the place, and