Ms. Taken. Jo Leigh

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      “She said she had to pick up a few things and that…Oh, God.”

      “What?”

      “She said she’d meet me at my place. She took my keys, too.”

      “Okay. So that’s where we’ll start.”

      Charles heard papers shuffling. He wondered if he’d explained the seriousness of the situation adequately. The woman was nuts, and she had his credit card and the key to his home. And yet David didn’t seem unduly alarmed. In fact, his voice sounded utterly blasé when he said, “I’ll cancel my three. You clear the deck on your end. I’ll be at your place in half an hour.”

      “Fine. Good.”

      “And Charles?”

      “Yes?”

      “Order lunch, will you? I’m starving.”

      Before Charles had a chance to tell David his request was completely inappropriate, David hung up.

      Charles did the same. His gaze wandered to his bookshelves. The neat, orderly rows, the fine leather bindings. He liked the look of them, always had. He’d meant to go through them. Just last…last year he’d decided to go back to reading something other than the Wall Street Journal. He hadn’t, of course. The year had gone by in a blur of deals, of business lunches, of NASDAQ ups and downs. The company had grown, and the shareholders were going to see some healthy dividends. It was all as it was supposed to be. Only—

      He shook himself out of his reverie and pressed the button for Ms. Ayres. He had to cancel his afternoon. All because of one little slip of a girl. He never should have hired her. Those curls of hers were a dead giveaway. She was trouble. Big trouble.

      “I THINK WE SHOULD CALL the police.”

      David shook his head. “It’s only four-thirty. Let’s give it till five.”

      “By five, she could have wiped out Saks.”

      “Charles, let me ask you something.” David leaned forward and pushed aside his beer so he could rest his hands on the dining room table. “Have you ever spoken to Jane?”

      “Of course. She works for me.”

      “I mean, have you spoken to her in a nonbusiness context?”

      “No. Why would I?”

      “Because you see her five days a week.”

      “David, I don’t go in for that touchy-feely crap, and you know it.”

      “I’m not asking if you’ve hugged her lately, just if you’ve talked. If you know anything about her.”

      Charles massaged his temples, wondering what would happen if he took three more aspirin. Or maybe he should just have a drink. “I only know that up until today, she’d done an adequate job.”

      “Have you ever heard of Pru Dobson?”

      “The violinist?”

      David nodded. “That’s Jane’s eldest sister.”

      “Didn’t we see her play?”

      “We did.”

      “Hmm.”

      “And have you heard of Felicity Dobson?”

      “The name rings a bell, but—”

      “The novelist.”

      “Right.”

      “Also Jane’s sister.”

      “Really.”

      “And maybe you’ve heard of Darra Dobson?”

      He shook his head.

      “Turn around.”

      “What?”

      “Just turn around.”

      Charles obeyed, swiveling to face the window of his tenth-floor penthouse.

      “See the billboard next to the Chivas Regal whiskey sign?”

      He nodded. It was huge, hardly something he could miss, even if he wanted to. A seminaked woman stared hungrily at a seminaked man. She wore his underwear. He didn’t appear to be wearing anything except a smile.

      “That’s Darra Dobson. Jane’s other sister.”

      “No kidding?”

      “No kidding.”

      Charles turned back. “Remarkable.”

      “Yes. Four girls. Three of them international celebrities.”

      “And then Jane.”

      David nodded.

      “That’s very touching, but what does it have to do with me?”

      “I’m not sure yet. But I think your Ms. Dobson is in trouble.”

      “So what am I supposed to do about it?”

      “I’ll let you know when I figure it out.”

      “I think this is a matter for the authorities, David.”

      “Not yet. Not until I speak with her.”

      “She’s probably on a plane to Monte Carlo.”

      He shook his head, propped his fingers in a steeple and peered over the top. “No. I don’t think so. I think she’ll be back.”

      “David, I know what your grade point average was, so knock it off.”

      “Knock what off?”

      “Your Freud imitation.”

      “I’m not the one who called looking for help, buddy boy.”

      Charles sighed. “I know. I just—”

      The sound of a key opening the dead bolt made both men jump. Charles looked at David. David looked at the door.

      David stood. Charles didn’t.

      Jane Dobson waltzed in and dropped several beige bags as she kicked the door shut behind her. The bandage was gone, revealing a considerable goose egg. She’d changed into decent, expensive looking clothes, and she had two shoes.

      “Hello, Charley,” she said. “Hi, David.”

      David nodded. “Hi.”

      “What? No kiss?”

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