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.
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