checked rooms for any sign Lauren had been home from her most recent photo shoot. She had a habit of popping in and out of Miami unannounced, which was what concerned Pete most.
The kitchen was sparkling clean, as were the rest of the rooms downstairs. No tossed jackets, no shoes lying askew. None of the ten thousand bags Lauren generally traveled with littering the floor.
Feeling more at ease by the second, Hailey jogged upstairs to check Lauren’s office to see if she’d left her calendar laying about, possibly indicating when she might be back or where she was scheduled to be now. Pete hadn’t had a clue where his sister was but wanted her found, and considering tracking down the supermodel was a lot more fun than dealing with her father’s stuffy secretary, Hailey’d jumped at the chance to help.
Besides, Hailey liked Lauren. Sure, Lauren could be a prima donna, but she had spunk. And any woman who could put Peter Kauffman in his place was a friend in Hailey’s book.
She pushed open the office door, flipped on the light and skimmed the calendar on Lauren’s fancy glass desk. The phone rang as she was sitting in the plush leather chair, flipping pages in Lauren’s datebook. Her hand stilled as the call went to the answering machine.
“Lauren, it’s Blake. I know you’re home. Pick up the phone.”
Home? Hailey glanced up.
“Look, baby,” Blake said. “We need to talk. Lauren? Can you hear me? Dammit. I know you’re there.” He let out a long sigh. “Just call me back, okay?”
The call ended with a beep before Hailey could pick up the receiver. She recognized the name. Lauren’s life was often splashed all over the tabloids, and Blake Warner was her newest boy-toy. Something had obviously happened between the two of them. Good ol’ Blake had sounded pissed. And a little desperate.
“Man trouble,” Hailey mumbled, glancing back at the datebook in front of her. “Nice to know I’m not the only one.” A frown cut across Hailey’s face as she scanned the page, and her mind wandered to her own version of man trouble.
Which really wasn’t much trouble at all because you had to have a man to have man trouble, which Hailey definitely didn’t. The last guy she’d even been remotely interested in—a homicide detective from Chicago who she thought she’d forged a connection with at Rafe and Lisa’s wedding just a few weeks ago—had stood her up the following morning where they’d made plans to meet for breakfast. And wasn’t that just her damn luck? Her track record with men sucked. So much for that outlook improving.
The phone in her pocket beeped, and she pulled it out, looked at the text from her friend Jill at INTERPOL and smiled. She immediately forwarded the message to Pete and hoped he had his phone turned on.
Refusing to think any more about Shane Maxwell and those sexy and mysterious eyes of his, Hailey flipped the datebook closed, slipped her phone back in her pocket and stood. Considering Blake’s message, it was possible Lauren was on her way home right this minute.
A car door slammed outside, the sound easily discernible through the quiet evening air. Hailey lifted her head and listened. Footsteps echoed from somewhere near the front of the house.
Bingo.
She hit the light switch and jogged back down the steps, wanting to intercept Lauren before the poor girl got the scare of her life and realized the front door was unlocked.
Hailey reached the entryway and jerked the heavy mahogany door open. Then stopped short.
The man staring back at her wasn’t the blond supermodel she’d expected. This guy was easily six-foot-three, with a mane of dark hair, a full beard and black, soulless eyes. A thin scar ran down the left side of his face and gave the impression of badass to the core.
And when he smiled, his slow and evil grin sent a shiver of foreboding down Hailey’s spine. She knew the face, because she’d just looked at it on her phone moments before.
“Hello, Miss Kauffman,” he said in a heavily accented voice. “Your presence is honorably requested by an associate of mine.”
Oh, Fuck. Minyawi.
Hailey slammed the door closed with all her strength, but Minyawi snaked a hand and foot inside and grabbed her by the hair before she got two steps away. More good luck for her. She’d left her Browning in the glove box of her car.
In a flash she was on her stomach, face pressed into those gleaming tiles she’d walked