Well, she silently conceded, she was in a relationship. She never had casual sex. What had happened last night meant a commitment-to her. But after living with Ryan and having a marriage end in heartbreak, she wasn’t sure she should be sharing a house with Adam. A little distance was probably a very good idea.
Becoming a vet would mean giving up a lot, and it would test a relationship. She’d buzzed by the animal hospital on her way home to see if they could suggest another person to help take over her cousin’s business. They had a few suggestions. And while Whitney was there, she’d been drafted to help with a Jackahuahua.
The combination Jack Russell terrier and Chihuahua had been crossbred to create a unique dog. So-called “designer” dogs had become popular. Breeders mated two different types of purebreds like Labrador retrievers and poodles to create a Labradoodle. Golden retrievers had also been crossed with poodles to have Goldendoodle puppies. The positive characteristics of the Labs and Goldens combined with the fur of poodles appealed to people who were allergic to dogs but wanted a family-friendly pet that was easy to train. Jackahuahuas were new to her, and Whitney wasn’t sure why they’d been crossbred.
The Jackahuahua had severely impacted anal glands. She’d nearly been bitten before they’d been able to bring the pet some relief, but she hadn’t minded. Just being in the clinic and seeing the variety of things she’d need to learn excited her, even the gross procedures like expressing anal glands. The road wouldn’t be easy, but becoming a vet was the career for her. She’d languished too long in a cube farm inputting data when she should have been doing something she loved.
“Don’t set aside your dream because of a man,” she said out loud. If Trish’s friend needed a house-sitter, Whitney intended to take the job.
She was ironing the raspberry dress when she remembered the photos of Miranda taken last December. She and Adam had gone up to his bedroom immediately after they left the pool. They’d spent the night making love. Neither of them had given a second thought to the pictures.
She finished the dress and hung it in the maid’s room. The photos were still on the kitchen counter and she took them up to the office, the dogs at her heels. She located the magnifying glass in the top drawer of what had once been Calvin Hunter’s desk. She examined the photos closely, taking care to check the umbrella that Adam had noticed in the background.
It was a talapa-style umbrella made of dried palm fronds. Across the top, letters were stitched in blue. The words were a little grainy but she made out “Corona.” The popular Mexican beer. Could the picture have been snapped in Mexico?
That would account for the dazzling sun in December when it had been raining here. Had it rained on that day? Adam had planned to consult the weather service Web site.
She spun around in the office chair and turned on Adam’s computer. A quick check of the site confirmed what Whitney had remembered. It had been raining as far south as Ensenada, Mexico, which was an hour’s drive beyond San Diego.
So Miranda hadn’t gone there, even though it would have been an easy drive. But she could have caught a cheap flight to Cabo San Lucas at the tip of the Baja California peninsula. It hadn’t been raining that far south. Or Miranda could have been in any number of places in Mexico. There were lots of inexpensive flights out of San Diego to destinations on the sun-drenched beaches in Mexico. Acapulco and Puerto Vallarta were among the most popular but other places were possibilities.
“Does it matter?” she wondered out loud. The other dogs were snoozing nearby, but at the sound of her voice, Lexi cocked her head. Whitney took the time to give her a loving pat.
Where Miranda had been last December could be very important. If Adam’s theory was correct, Miranda might have returned to this sunny spot. But why hadn’t her name appeared on the passport check? She gazed at the smiling picture of her cousin.
What had Miranda been thinking?
She studied the photo for several minutes. There was more writing on the talapa. The magnifying glass showed a smaller word after Corona. It looked like “de.” No. There was another letter. An L. The second word was “del.”
Maybe it wasn’t the name of a beer after all. She’d taken three years of Spanish in high school. Corona meant crown. That accounted for the crown logo on each Corona beer bottle.
The third word was blurred. Evidently, the breeze had ruffled the dried fronds and they had concealed part of the letters. The magnifying glass had a small circular insert that magnified a bit more. She positioned it over the third word. “Mar,” she finally decided.
Corona del Mar. Crown of the sea.
Okay, Crown of the Sea. Was it a resort or a restaurant? No, probably not a restaurant, she decided. The talapa was shading a beach chair. There wasn’t any sign of food.
She went onto the computer again. Expedia didn’t have any listing for a resort in Mexico called Corona del Mar. She tried Google and had over seventy hits. One was a beach in Southern California. Another was a swim suit manufacturer.
She diligently checked each one to see if there was any possible link. She was on fifty-three when she discovered Corona del Mar, an upscale development on the Mexican Riviera south of Cancún. The “villas” were in a tropical reserve called Mayakoba and started at a million dollars.
Miranda couldn’t have been there. She didn’t have that kind of money.
Whitney thought about it for a second as she leaned down to pet Lexi again. “Doesn’t work,” she told Lexi. “Does it, girl? Not unless Miranda did come across a bundle of drug money.”
ADAM STOOD BESIDE WHITNEY, a glass of champagne in his hand. He’d gotten home late, and he’d forgotten all about the opening. They’d rushed to make it to the gallery. Luck had been with them and they’d found a parking space down the street. They hadn’t needed to waste time waiting for the parking valets who had been hired for the evening and were stationed in front of the gallery.
“That’s Rod Babcock over there,” Whitney told him in a low voice. “Next to the tall blonde. She’s Trish Bowrather, owner of the gallery.”
“Let’s see if we can edge our way close enough to talk to them. Make it seem casual,” he told her. “We want to catch Babcock off guard.”
Adam had never been to a gallery opening. He’d expected a lot of dressed-up folks, but not this many. Either the Russian was a huge draw or the gallery owner had an impressive list of clients who were willing to turn out for free champagne and appetizers.
He put his hand on the back of Whitney’s waist to guide her forward. He wasn’t letting her out of his sight. When she’d waltzed out of the maid’s room in a pink number that clung to her sexy bod like wet silk, he’d wanted to drag her upstairs and throw her on his bed.
“Dynamite,” he’d told her. And he’d meant it.
Every guy in the place was gawking at her. Well, okay, not every guy. The gallery was so damn packed that only those close to them could see Whitney. Those men couldn’t get enough. Sure as hell, he wasn’t leaving her alone with some sleazebag lawyer.
“That must be Vladimir,” Whitney said to him over her shoulder.
Adam assumed she meant the little guy with the grizzled goatee and wisps of white hair arranged on his bullet-shaped head in the comb-over from hell. His name had conjured up an image of a young, fit guy, but obviously Adam’s imagination had taken flight in the wrong direction.
“I leave here five, all but six years,” Vladimir was saying as they shouldered their way up to the attorney and the blonde.
Adam decided the Russian had been living here almost six years. His English was iffy, but who was Adam to judge. If he were living in Russia, he seriously doubted he could speak their language any better after five years.