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Laird could easily have gone into his father’s commercial real estate business, but no. Right out of Yale with a degree in finance, Laird had used a trust fund from his grandfather to open a surf shop.

  “Coffee for me. Black. And blueberry waffles. Hold the whipped cream,” Laird told the cute redhead who’d appeared out of nowhere when Laird sat down. The guy was a chick magnet. The only girl who hadn’t fallen all over him since junior high was Hayley.

  Trent ordered an omelet while Laird pulled off his Ray Bans and tilted his face up to catch the rays of the morning sun. The light glinted off his gelled brown hair. “What’s up? You said it was important.”

  Trent wanted to ease into this; he didn’t want to sound desperate. “You heard about Hayley.”

  Laird’s head snapped down and he looked at Trent. “What about her?”

  Trent knew by Laird’s expression that he hadn’t heard. Hayley’s reappearance was all anyone could talk about. “It wasn’t Hayley that died in that car bombing.”

  “No shit!”

  “What planet have you been visiting? It’s all over the news.”

  The animation had left Laird’s face. He didn’t seem to notice the waitress bending low, giving him a look at her breasts as she brought Laird his coffee and refilled Trent’s cup. This wasn’t like Laird. He was an ass man from the get-go. That’s why Trent had always been secretly glad Hayley hadn’t fallen for him. Even after her lowest point when she’d broken up with Chad, Hayley just had a few dates with Laird. He knew without asking that Laird hadn’t gotten Hayley in bed. Good. Life was too easy for the prick.

  “I was on the Hail Mary in Catalina.” Laird’s tone sounded strained as he referred to his Donzi. The speed boat had been christened Hail Mary because it went so fast that those aboard prayed when Laird was at the wheel. “I’d just returned when you called.”

  That explained it. Laird had undoubtedly been banging some chick on the boat all night, then headed home from the island at dawn. The damn boat was so fast it took less than an hour to cross the channel.

  Trent leaned back, valiantly trying to hide a smirk. It wasn’t often that he was one up on Laird McMasters. “Seems Hayley went down to Costa Rica without telling anyone. She just returned and found out we’d buried her.”

  Trent couldn’t stifle a laugh. He chuckled loudly and several people at nearby tables glanced their way. Laird’s answering smile was bleak, tight-lipped as he shot his hand through his hair.

  Trent realized that what he suspected was true. Laird still had a thing for Hayley. Always had; probably always would have. Trent didn’t see it, but that didn’t matter. What was important was how he could take advantage of the information.

  “The police, the FBI, everyone was looking for her. Why didn’t her passport show up on a computer security check or something?”

  “I don’t have all the details, but apparently she flew there on some guy’s private plane. A Falcon X7.” Trent had heard this on the morning newscast.

  That got him. Laird had an eighteen-hole tan so he couldn’t turn green, but a flash of jealousy sparked in his dark eyes. Only the richest guys could afford such an expensive plane.

  “Don’t they have CNN down there?” Laird asked, bitterness underscoring each word. “Didn’t she hear she’d supposedly died?”

  “Apparently not.” Trent raised his eyebrows, hoping to give the impression that Hayley had been too busy in bed to turn on the news. Why in hell had she gone to Costa Rica, of all places?

  The waitress arrived with their food and set the plates in front of them, again giving Laird a full view of her boobs. The guy had it bad; he didn’t look.

  Laird didn’t even glance up when the bell clanged three times and a male waiter shouted that a whale had been sighted in the surf. The tourists sprang to their feet—as usual every table was full—to see one of the pods of whales migrating north from Mexico to Alaska. The locals, accustomed to the sight, just gazed at the passing whale.

  “You wanted to have breakfast with me to tell me about Hayley.” Laird sounded as if he’d been eating a dog turd instead of the Beachcomber’s famous waffles.

  “No. I assumed you knew.” Trent had to be careful here. Laird was irritated and maybe now wasn’t the time to bring up money. His temper, when crossed, could be almost uncontrollable. Trent was sorry he’d mentioned Hayley.

  “I didn’t know,” Laird replied with his usual self-confidence, “but I’m glad. She has an eye for our business and she’s a good person.”

  This gave Trent the opening he’d been praying for since leaving Chad last night. “You’re right. She has great business sense.”

  “Like her mother.”

  Trent almost choked on his bite of spinach omelet. He forced himself to say, “True.” He felt as if he’d stabbed his mother in the back. The woman always deluded herself by believing Russell Fordham alone had built Surf’s Up. No one dared mention to Cynthia Fordham that Alison had been the brains behind the operation.

  “What’s going on?” Laird sounded like his old self now.

  “We’re in a bit of a bind,” Trent replied, easing into this. “The DEA has a hold on my shipment of surfboards from China. The economic meltdown. We’re strapped for cash.”

  Laird put down his fork and his dark eyes pierced the distance between them. “Isn’t the company in probate?”

  “Right. We should be out soon.” He didn’t tell him that refiling the papers when they thought Hayley was dead had delayed the process considerably. “We need cash now.” He deliberately said “we” because it was obvious Laird had a soft spot for Hayley. “Could you advance us some money short-term?”

  “Is that legal? I mean shouldn’t the receiver—or conservator or whoever oversees the probate—be handling this?”

  “Yes,” Trent conceded. “This would be off the books.”

  Laird shoved his half-eaten waffles aside. “You know, Hayley has the right take on our business. Smart girl, like her mother.”

  Trent struggled to keep his face neutral. Allison Fordham again. And Hayley. Why wasn’t Laird discussing the money?

  “Remember that meeting at Tommy Bahama’s a couple of weeks before your father crashed?”

  Trent nodded, hiding his bitterness. How could he forget the lunch on the sunny patio of the Caribbean-style restaurant a few doors away from Surf’s Up? He and Laird had planned to convince his father that importing boards was a great idea—the future of the business. He’d brought Hayley along; she’d had other ideas.

  Laird leaned across the table. “Hayley was dead-on, you know. Sports in America have changed. I hadn’t thought about it until Hayley mentioned it. Skateboarding has been the fastest-growing sport for the last—” Laird shrugged “—dozen years or so. Since we were kids. Right behind it is mountain biking, kayaking and snowboarding. All individual sports—not team sports.”

  Trent managed a nod. He’d heard all this before—several times. What Hayley had pointed out that day made their father reevaluate his business.

  “Team sports aren’t growing,” continued Laird. “They’re too competitive, cause too many injuries to young players and they’ve become too…too corporate. College ball has been decimated by guys who leave for the pros without finishing school. Then they make outrageous amounts of money and it pisses off the public big-time.”

  “True,” Trent agreed, although he had once hoped to make his fortune as a pro skateboarder. He had talent, but others were more talented, and he was smart enough to realize it.

  “Know what I read the other day? There was a survey in some flyover town like St. Louis or Kansas City. The fifteen-to twenty-five-year-olds questioned couldn’t name more than two of the pros on the local football team, but they knew the names of five or more MMA fighters.”

  “I’m not surprised. Hayley saw that trend coming.” He despised the sport, but no question the gear with The Wrath’s logo—designed by Hayley—was kicking butt even in a depressed economy.

  “I thin
k Hayley is right. Surfers changed the country. Clothes, vocabulary, attitude, but we’re on the down-stroke now. Sure, there’ll always be the need for boards and clothes, but it’s not the growth industry it once was.”

  Laird and Hayley were probably right. In fact, checking the company’s numbers proved they were onto something. But that didn’t mean Trent had to like it.

  “How much do you and Hayley need?”

  Trent shook his head regretfully and told him. Laird’s smile morphed into a shit-eating smirk.

  TRENT LEFT THE BEACHCOMBER and took the tram that was new—but made to look like a fifties Woodie—up to the parking lot. Crystal Cove was a state beach now, but once it had been home to locals who’d built wooden cottages along the shore back when not everyone had two or three cars. Now only service vehicles were allowed down to the area where one large cottage had been converted into The Beachcomber while the others were rented to tourists. They paid big bucks to be right on the water in “cottages” that were little more than shacks.

  On the drive to Surf’s Up main shop in the Corona del Mar shopping center, Trent reviewed his options. He did not want to be in business with Laird. The sleaze would find a way to bilk Trent out of major dough. Laird and Farah were both smarter, more educated than Trent, but Trent figured he had his mother’s craftiness. He reviewed his options as he pulled into the huge parking lot.

  It was only nine-thirty—early for the beach in summer—but the area was crowded with cars. Then he noticed the horde of people outside his shop. They hadn’t had this large a crowd since the last Christmas sale two years ago, before the economic meltdown.

  Wait a minute. Why weren’t people inside? The shop had been open for half an hour. A van with a satellite dish on top caught his eye. KABC News was in metallic letters along its side. They were filming a live remote.

  Hayley, he realized. Not customers. News media. They were here no doubt for a comment on Hayley. What could he say? He didn’t know squat.

  He swung his Porsche into the space reserved for him and shut off the engine. No one had spotted him so he was tempted to go home. Who needed this?

  Home made him think of Courtney and Timmy. Trent would bet his life his whiny son was banging away on the piano or in his room reading a book. Jesus H. Christ. At Timmy’s age, Trent had skateboarded his way to the beach carrying his own surfboard. Could the kid be gay? Trent brushed the thought aside. This was Courtney’s doing. She was making a wuss out of Trent’s son.

  Trent knew he should divorce Courtney. Her pill problem wasn’t getting any better, but he couldn’t afford a divorce right now. If Hayley had died and the estate had been split two ways, he would have been able to divorce Courtney at the end of this year. The way things were going, he wouldn’t get rid of her in the foreseeable future.

  At times like this, Trent wished his father had opened a corporate office. Then Trent could hide out in a high-rise somewhere until the dust settled. But no, his father, like the other surfers who’d turned their passion into a business, chose to stay close to their customers. A spacious office was in back of the retail store.

  Face your problems, Trent told himself. He glanced at the crowd in front of his store. Was that The Wrath standing there?

  “I’ll be a son of a bitch,” he swore as he climbed out of the Porsche. Don’t go off half-cocked, Trent warned himself. Sales of MMA gear were keeping the company afloat. Trent hadn’t anticipated the trend, didn’t like The Wrath and all his steroid-pumped bully boys who lived for cage fighting, but enough people idolized the prick to spend money on clothes—even when dollars were tight—that carried The Wrath’s logo.

  With a measured, purposeful stride, Trent walked toward the swarming horde at the door to Surf’s Up. No one paid any attention to him as he elbowed his way forward until he was almost abreast of the gaggle of reporters who had a bouquet of microphones thrust to The Wrath’s face.

  “Yo, Trent,” called The Wrath.

  Bulky cameras burdening the shoulders of the men with the flashy reporters swung in Trent’s direction. Reporters scrambled to reposition themselves. Microphones jabbed at him.

  “Isn’t it the bomb?” The Wrath asked. “Hayley is alive.”

  Bile rose in Trent’s throat and he forced himself to smile and nod. “The whole family is thrilled.” A bald-faced lie. Only Meg Amboy was truly happy.

  “Were you surprised? Where had your sister been? Why hadn’t she called? What’s going to happen now? Who was the woman in the car? Has her family been notified?” Like machine-gun fire, the questions bombarded him.

  Trent suddenly remembered the brief clip he’d seen on TV of Garver Browne. “No comment,” he said as he shouldered his way past the reporters toward the two shopping-center security guards stationed at the entrance to his store. If he left them panting for more, Surf’s Up would be on television for hours. Couldn’t hurt business.

  The Wrath followed at Trent’s heels. “I had to talk to Hayley myself. See that she was okay.”

  Trent halted and The Wrath nearly bumped into him in front of the counter fashioned from old-time surfboards. He cautiously asked, “You talked to her?”

  “Sure,” the muscle-bound hulk replied with his trademark sneer. “She’s in the office.”

  My office! Trent stopped himself from shouting this out loud. What the fuck was she doing here? The Hayley he knew would be hiding out until this situation was resolved. Obviously, someone had tried to kill her. What was she doing sashaying around? Camping out in his office?

  What should he do? What should he say? How should he act? Shit! He should have gone home. There was no turning back now.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  HAYLEY PRETENDED she didn’t hear Trent coming toward the office. She tinkered with the computer, looking at sales reports that she’d already reviewed. Could she pull this off? She’d never been much of an actress, and was worse at lying.

  Your life depends on this, she reminded herself. When Ryan had dropped her off before the shop opened, she’d spotted the reporters and slipped in the back door. The young clerks—who surfed on days off—had been thrilled to see her.

  Hayley had expected Trent to arrive any moment, but he hadn’t, which was unusual. The man had an admirable work ethic. Trent had refused to attend college because he felt he could learn more on the job. Hayley’s mother hadn’t agreed, but Trent’s mother backed him all the way.

  Cynthia had always wanted Trent to own Surf’s Up. Hayley hadn’t spent much time around her father’s ex, but when she had, Hayley could tell the woman saw Trent as the rightful heir to the surf empire his father had built. It hadn’t bothered Hayley because she wanted something different for herself.

  Hayley had told a clerk to call the center’s security guards to keep the media vampires thirsty for fresh blood out of the shop. They swarmed outside the door, anxious for Surf’s Up to open. A few seconds later insistent banging on the front door had caught her attention. She’d peeked from behind the rack of board shorts where she’d concealed herself to see The Wrath.

  She had the clerks let him in and he strode right up to her, then engulfed her in his powerful arms. “I heard you were back. I couldn’t believe it. I had to see for myself.”

  The MMA fighter who could make opponents quake with a single scowl was genuinely glad to see her. When she’d been thinking about her lack of close friends, Hayley hadn’t realized Carleton Cole—The Wrath—had become a friend, not just a business contact. She took him back to the office and gave him the story that she and Ryan had agreed upon.

  Ryan hadn’t come into her room last night as she’d half-expected. Half-hoped. She was confused; her own emotions baffled her. How could she be so attracted to Ryan when less than a week ago, she’d been telling herself to get over Chad Bennett? She was over him all right, but what had she gotten herself into now? Her life was proof positive she was a crummy judge of character.

  Hayley recalled some psychologist on television saying women tended
to pick the same kind of man over and over. Was that what she was doing?

  Was she setting herself up for another heartbreak by falling for a man who must still be in love with a dead woman?

  There was no way to compete with a ghost, she realized. That person had died and could no longer do anything wrong. Jessica Hollister had been immortalized in Ryan’s mind. Otherwise he would have moved on after two years, right?

  Wait a minute, she told herself. What made her think Ryan hadn’t moved on? He could have a girlfriend in L.A. or somewhere. After all, his excuse for breaking off the kiss was to “keep this professional.” Considering Ryan had ignored professional standards in hiding her, Hayley believed this wasn’t the real reason.

  Something she’d heard in his voice, seen in his eyes when he’d discussed his wife made Hayley believe Ryan’s reasons were personal—not professional. Technically, it was impossible to be unfaithful to someone who was no longer among the living, but maybe Ryan didn’t feel that way.

  On some level, he was attracted to her. Get real, she thought. Remember what he said: “You’re so damn sexy. It’s eating me alive.” Last night may have meant something to her, but to Ryan it had been all about sex. He might worship his wife’s memory, but he had physical needs. No doubt anything in panties would do. Well, not these panties.

  She had to keep her priorities in mind. Finding out exactly who wanted her dead and why trumped anything else in her life. Next came her aunt and her career. Sex finished dead last.

  “Hayley!” Trent called from the doorway.

  She lifted her head, acting as if she hadn’t heard him arrive. The Wrath was at his side, smiling. She’d thought The Wrath had left for his morning training session, but now he was here again.

  “I’m baaack!” Hayley cried, striving to sound upbeat. She rose from the computer and awkwardly walked into Trent’s outstretched arms.

  “Oh, my God! I can’t believe it!” Trent bear-hugged her. “I—I thought…w-we thought—everyone thought you were dead.”