The Redemption Of Rafe Diaz. Maggie Price

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      Rafe turned, wandered toward a glass display case. “Do you have any other customers who had a connection to Mercedes?”

      “Not directly.”

      “Indirectly?”

      “The purses.” Allie swept a hand toward the display case that held a number of jeweled evening clutches. “Mercedes designed those.”

      Frowning, Rafe stared down at the case. “She made purses?”

      “She designed them. She had a savvy eye for fashion. When I saw her designs, I bought them. I have them made at the same off-site warehouse my seamstresses work out of.”

      “Interesting.”

      The sardonic tone that had settled in his voice had Allie narrowing her eyes. “Why is that interesting?”

      “In college, you were too busy partying to bother attending class. Now, you oversee a financial empire and own this shop.”

      Irritation shot through her as she stared at his hard, emotionless face. Logic told her she should be able to shrug off his words. After all, what he’d said was true. She’d spent her time hooking up with wildly inappropriate boyfriends while thumbing her nose at her studies. Not because she hadn’t been capable of making good grades but because it had irritated her father, and that had been important to her at the time. But a whole lot of life had gone on since she had last seen Rafe, and she was a very different person from the looking-for-a-good-time girl he had known.

      Something inside of her that she couldn’t define found it vitally important that he understand that.

      “You’re right, I sit on the board of my family’s company,” Allie said coolly. “And I’ve built my own separate business from the ground up. I’m about to start direct sales of the lingerie I design via my Web site. Things change, Rafe. People change. Sometimes for the better.”

      “Yeah.” He gestured toward his business card she’d left on the counter. “If you remember anything else about Mercedes or the night you found her dead, give me a call.”

      Allie watched him turn, tracked his progress as he strode toward the door. And even though her muscles still felt like glass, she rose from the love seat. “Rafe.”

      He paused, turned back to face her, his eyes as dark and hard as flint. “What?”

      “I’m sorry about what happened to you.” Aware that her heartbeat was much too fast and labored for a woman standing still, she curled her fingers into her palms. “Truly sorry. I hope you know that all I did was tell the truth.”

      His gaze stayed locked on hers as an emotion she couldn’t define flickered in his eyes. “You told what you thought was the truth. And I’m the one who paid for it.”

      Chapter 2

      “Dammit, I don’t care if Allie Fielding saw me at the condo. I didn’t kill Mercedes!”

      Rafe studied his client across the real estate developer’s expansive desk. In his late fifties, Hank Bishop was powerfully built with black hair going gray at the temples and a strongly carved face with prominent planes. The stress of a murder charge hanging over him made those planes look glass-sharp.

      “Miss Fielding didn’t see you,” Rafe said levelly. “She saw your car’s taillights when you drove off.”

      Bishop dragged in a breath. “That should add muscle to my claim that I’m not the person who clubbed Allie in the head.”

      Bishop’s comment shoved her image into Rafe’s mind. Despite his best efforts not to, he pictured how she’d looked sitting on that pink love seat, her temple bruised, her cheeks colorless.

      He’d left the shop hours ago and he was still fighting to shake off the awareness that had jolted through him when he pressed his palm against Allie’s spine and nudged her forward. She’d been on the verge of passing out, yet the electricity that zipped into his fingers had been unmistakable. It was a connection he had not felt—had not wanted to feel—with another living soul over the past seven years.

      The unexpected quake of emotion had pissed him off. He was still pissed off. He didn’t need this, didn’t want the memories spilling out, flashing in kaleidoscope tumbles, like the revolving red/blue lights on the police car that had driven him away from the life he’d once known.

      “The killer had to have still been at the condo when I got there.” Bishop bounced a fist against the arm of his chair. “Maybe when I went out the front door he headed toward the back, thinking he’d get out that way? Instead, he ran into Allie.”

      “That’s probably what happened,” Rafe agreed. “It’s just that her seeing taillights matching your Ferrari goes a long way in placing you at the scene of the murder.”

      Bishop cursed. “My security chief recommended I hire you because you’ve got a reputation for digging up evidence that clears innocent people. That’s what I need you to do for me, Diaz. Not tighten the noose that’s already around my neck.”

      “Before I accepted your retainer, I explained it’s possible that evidence doesn’t exist.”

      “Dammit, it has to.” Bishop jerked his tie loose, then flicked opened the top button on his starched shirt. “Mercedes was dead when I got to the condo. There has to be a way for me to get clear of this.”

      For a moment, Rafe said nothing. He had thought the same thing himself when his nightmare began. He’d been innocent, yet he’d wound up in prison.

      “Let’s go over what you told me about that night. See if we can come up with something.”

      Bishop eased out a breath. “Like I said, I arrived early to pick up Mercedes for our flight to Paris. I used my key to get in. She didn’t answer when I called her name, so I figured she was upstairs. I knew something was wrong when I saw the stuff from her purse dumped out on the bedroom floor.”

      The mention of the purse sent Rafe’s thoughts to the display at Silk & Secrets of the sequined purses the dead woman had designed.

      “I found Mercedes in the kitchen.” Emotion flickered over Bishop’s face before he looked away. His fisted hand trembled. “I can’t believe she’s dead.”

      To give his client time to get a grip on his emotions, Rafe swept his gaze around the office. As on his first visit to the downtown high-rise, he could find nothing compelling about the cool black furniture and white walls. The place had the same stark feel as the cell where he’d spent two years of his life.

      “The killer dumped out the contents of Mercedes’s purse, so it sounds like he was after something she might carry around,” Rafe said after a moment. “Any idea what that might be?”

      “I have no clue.”

      “I found out the police discovered a state-of-the-art audio system in the condo. Did you have it installed?”

      “No.” Bishop frowned. “You mean, a stereo system?”

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