And he hoped that he could trust her. Amanda Patterson was a wild card, an unknown, someone beyond his control.

Someone, he had a feeling, it would take a very long time to forget.

The telephone was ringing again.

Amanda sat motionless on her sister’s patio, her muscles tensing, the teaching application she’d filled out forgotten in her hand.

“Phone, Mommy,” Claire announced from her turtleshaped sandbox in the yard.

“I know.” Amanda tried not to let fear seep into her voice. “But Aunt Kendall’s at rehearsal. We’ll let the answering machine pick it up.” And hope to God it wasn’t another hang-up call.

The answering machine kicked on, and her sister’s perky voice floated through the open sliding glass door. The machine beeped. The abrupt silence of the disconnected line made her stomach churn.

She set down her papers and rubbed her arms—chilled now, despite the heat. It was just another wrong number or a junk phone call. There was nothing sinister about people calling and hanging up. Annoying, yes. Dangerous, no.

Even if the hang-up calls had only begun three days ago, after the casino attack. Even if they now got a dozen such calls a day. Even if whenever she answered the phone, there was only heavy, ominous breathing—nothing more.

It couldn’t be reporters. They would talk to her, ask questions, not just breathe and hang up.

This was something Wayne would do—something he had done to unsettle her nerves. But Wayne was in jail. That detective had checked.

She set her pen on the table and rose, placed a rock over the job application so it wouldn’t flutter away. Regardless of who was calling, she wasn’t going to let this get to her. And she wasn’t going to let Claire sense her fear. She’d moved here to give her daughter a safer, more peaceful life, and she would succeed.

“It’s time to get the mail and have our snack.” She struggled to make her voice cheerful, but Claire still looked at her and frowned. “How about some apple juice and animal crackers today?”

“Okay.” Claire trotted over, and Amanda brushed the sand off her daughter’s bottom and hands, adjusted the sun hat flopping around her sweet face.

“Wait. Brownie.” Claire grabbed the bear she’d propped on the patio chair and hugged it close. Too close. Had Claire picked up on her fear?

She forced a smile to lighten the mood. “Is Brownie going to help us get the mail?” She knew the answer, of course. Claire didn’t go anywhere without her bear. Brownie ate with her, slept with her, played with her. She’d hugged off most of its fur, kissed the color from its once-black eyes. Amanda prayed that bear never got lost, or Claire would be destroyed.

“You two can lead the way,” she added, and followed her along the walkway to the gate. Her sister lived in one of the new developments that had sprung up during the recent building boom. It was a modest, family-oriented neighborhood with two-story stucco homes, a far cry from Wayne’s luxury condo at the Ritz Carlton in DC. And thank goodness for that. Wayne had been all about status, appearances. He didn’t care that there’d been no place for Claire to ride a bike or play.

She unlatched the gate, waited for Claire to toddle through. She couldn’t even begin to imagine how Luke Montgomery lived. She’d read up on him during the past few days, learned that he was a notorious playboy, a megabillionaire developer who owned casinos and resorts throughout the world. That suit he’d worn had probably cost more than her car.

An image of his broad, muscled shoulders, the dark, sexy planes of his face flashed into her mind. She didn’t doubt the playboy part. The man was lethally attractive with his deeply graveled voice and intense eyes. And that moment in the hallway when she’d thought he was going to kiss her…

She shut the gate behind her with a forceful click. Surely she’d imagined his interest in her. Luke Mont-gomery operated completely outside her orbit—which was fine with her. She had all she wanted in life right here. Maybe she didn’t hobnob with billionaires, and maybe she’d once dreamed of a more exciting life, but she had a great sister, a daughter she adored. And soon she’d have a job and her own house, too.

She just needed to lose this constant fear.

“Wait for me,” she warned Claire. She grabbed her daughter’s hand to make sure she didn’t dart off, then walked with her toward the mailbox. The warm sun shimmered off the neighbors’ redtiled roofs. Palm fronds rustled in the breeze. Laughter and the thump of a bouncing basketball came from some teens shooting hoops down the street.

She let Claire open the mailbox and pull out the advertisements and bills. She lunged forward to catch a sheath of junk mail tumbling loose.

“Mine,” Claire cried and clutched the mail.

“I’m just getting the stuff that fell.” She scooped up the ads and stray letters and then closed the box. A plain white envelope in her hand caught her eye.

She paused, turned it over. No name. No address.

A sliver of foreboding snaked up her back.

She shook it off, exasperated by her overreaction. She was getting ridiculous, imagining danger at every turn. It was probably an advertisement. She tore open the back flap, pulled out the contents—a piece of white paper, some photos.