Excerpt of Behind the Mask by Metsy Hingle

Chapter One "I'll pay you one million dollars to find my wife." "All right, Webster," Michael Sullivan replied from the other end of the phone line. "You've got my attention."

Adam Webster smiled in satisfaction at the ex-cop's change in attitude. "I'm glad to hear that," he said as he gazed at the view of the Miami skyline afforded him from his penthouse suite of offices. He was glad, but he wasn't at all surprised. He'd learned a long time ago that money talks - even to a man like Sullivan. A man who, according to his sources, had been among Houston's best and brightest police detectives until five years ago when he'd resigned abruptly following his partner's death. Now he hired himself out as a detective, bodyguard or bounty hunter - whatever the situation called for. The man was said to be as mean as a rattlesnake and twice as dangerous. He also reportedly had the instincts of a bloodhound when it came to tracking down someone who didn't want to be found. It was Sullivan's latter skill that he needed now. "You've been a difficult man to get in touch with, Mr. Sullivan," Adam said, making no attempt to hide his displeasure. "My assistant tells me she's left you several messages."

"I've been out of town handling something for a client. The truth is, the only reason you caught me now is because I had to swing by to the office to pick up some reports."

"I see," Adam said tightly. "I'm not accustomed to being ignored, Mr. Sullivan."

"No one's ignoring you, Webster. But since I'm pressed for time, why don't we dispense with my lack of good manners and you tell me why you're willing to pay me a million bucks to find your wife."

"Because she's missing," Adam said sharply, angered by the man's insolence. Biting back his temper, he reminded himself that he needed Sullivan to find Elisabeth and the disk she'd stolen. With his temper making him edgy, he turned away from the sweep of windows and stalked over to his desk. Sitting down, he picked up the framed photo of Elisabeth. "I understand your expertise is in finding people. And, as I said, I'd like to hire you to find my wife."

"How long has she been missing?"

"Six months." And after six months it still gnawed at him like a festering sore. He detested mistakes, refused to tolerate them. Yet he had made a mistake in underestimating Elisabeth.

Never in a million years would he have believed that sweet, docile Elisabeth - the girl he'd fed, clothed and molded into a woman worthy to be his wife - would have had the guts to defy him. To steal the disk from his safe. To actually drug him and run away. Even more infuriating was that she'd not only gotten away from the idiots he'd hired to guard her, but that he'd doled out a considerable sum of money for private detectives, and some not-so-reputable business associates, to find her. And though they'd come close to grabbing her twice, she had still managed to escape. But not for much longer, Adam promised himself. If Sullivan was half as good as the reports on him indicated, Elisabeth's rebellion was about to come to an end.

"Webster? You still there?"

"Yes. Yes, I'm here," Adam repeated, dragging his thoughts back to the present. "What did you say?"

"I asked if you've filed a missing persons report with the police?"

"No," Adam advised him. "I don't want the police involved."

"Why not?"

"Aside from the fact that I can do without the publicity, I don't want any charges filed against my wife."

"Last I heard, it wasn't a crime for a woman to leave her husband," Sullivan informed him.

"No. But stealing cash and jewelry from my safe and kidnapping my son are crimes. If I had brought the police into it, they would have issued an arrest warrant for her. I prefer to handle things myself."

Sullivan swore.

"My sentiments exactly," Adam told him.

"Why didn't you say up front that she stole the kid?" Sullivan demanded.

"I was about to," Adam lied, surprised that a man who was reportedly a real hard-ass should care about the kid. He certainly didn't give a damn about the brat. As far as he was concerned, his problems with Elisabeth all began with the kid. Not insisting that she terminate the pregnancy had been a major screwup on his part - one he would make sure didn't happen again. But first ... first he had to get Elisabeth back - and that damning disk. Did she even know what was on it? Or the damage it could cause him if it got into the wrong hands?

"How old's your boy?"

Adam frowned at Sullivan's question and quickly calculated how old the kid would be now. "Almost three."

"Man, that's got to be rough, him being so little and you missing all that time with him."

"It is," Adam said, because it was obvious that Sullivan expected it. "I want you to find my family for me, Mr. Sullivan. And I'd like you to start looking for them right away. If you'll come by my office, I'll provide you with any other information you need, and give you a retainer for your services. I'll expect you within the hour."

"I can't make it today."

Adam scowled. "Why not?" he demanded, unaccustomed to having his requests denied.

"Because I'm in the middle of another job."

"And is this other client offering to pay you a million dollars for your services?" he countered.

"No."

"Then I don't see the problem. Tell your client to find someone else to handle whatever it is you're doing."

"That's not the way I work," Sullivan said, his voice cool and hard. "When I make a commitment, I honor it. I've got to go. I'll give you a call when I get back and, if you're still interested in hiring me, we'll talk."

When the dial tone buzzed in his ear, Adam slammed down the receiver. "Arrogant bastard," he muttered, clenching his fists. Sullivan would pay for that, he promised. As soon as the man found Elisabeth, he would make Sullivan regret his insolence. Shoving back from the desk, he headed to the bar and poured himself a shot of bourbon. He tossed it back, felt the sting as the drink slid down his throat like liquid fire. After pouring himself another one, he grabbed the crystal tumbler and stalked across the ultramodern office on which he'd spent a small fortune. Ignoring the polished finish on the black marble desktop, he set down his glass and picked up the silver-framed picture of Elisabeth. He stared at her - the pale delicate skin, the silky blond hair, the long slender neck. Never taking his eyes from the photo, he reached for the bourbon and tossed back another swallow.