“Whitney, there you are,” exclaimed Trish Bowrather. The gallery owner’s eyes surveyed Adam for a moment, then she smiled at the attorney.

Broderick Babcock was dressed in a black mock turtleneck and a beige linen sports jacket that hadn’t come off the rack. His chocolate-brown trousers had creases sharper than most knife blades. He appeared fit with black hair burnished with gray at the temples. Adam had to admit that Babcock might have walked straight out of central casting to fill the role of a high-profile attorney.

“Whitney adores your work,” Trish told the Russian. “Don’t you, Whitney?”

“Very impressive.” Whitney sounded convincing, but on the way over she’d confided in Adam that she found Vladimir’s immense canvases strange.

“You look great,” Babcock commented, his eyes assessing Whitney in a way that made Adam want to punch out his lights.

Whitney introduced Adam to the attorney, and the guy blessed him with a brief glance. He couldn’t keep his eyes off Whitney. Trish kept smiling, but her lips were crimped. Adam would bet his life the gallery owner wanted Babcock all to herself.

“Trish! Trish!” called an old battle-ax with garlands of pearls around her neck.

“Come on.” Trish grabbed Vladimir by the arm. “Geraldine Devore already owns two of your paintings. She’s dying to meet you.”

Adam eyed Babcock while the lawyer and Whitney watched Trish tow Vladimir through the crowd. They were both smiling, on the verge of laughing. Babcock’s eyes shifted left and checked out Whitney’s cleavage.

“Let’s go outside and get some air,” Adam told Whitney.

The attorney took the bait. “Good idea.”

It took the trio a few minutes to maneuver their way through the crowd. Along the way beach bunnies dressed as cowgirls offered them a variety of appetizers from Liquid Cowboy, the caterer. Adam noticed the opening was in full swing. Bored husbands quaffing martinis. Women checking out each other’s jewelry. A few people looking at the art.

Prospect Avenue was on the bluff above the ocean. Outside the gallery a balmy breeze drifted in from the Pacific, bringing with it the briny scent of the ocean. There were a few guests on the sidewalk but it wasn’t too crowded for a private conversation.

Whitney gave him an opening. “Rod’s helping with my property settlement. I went to him because of Miranda.”

Adam looked directly in the attorney’s eyes. “They look a lot alike, don’t they?”

“So I’m told.” Babcock took a swig of scotch. “I never met the woman.”

“Really?” Adam did his best to sound surprised. “Jared Cabral told me you were a regular at Saffron Blue.”

Babcock’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes might have narrowed just slightly. “Jared didn’t tell you anything. It’s easier to persuade a dead man to talk.”

True. So true. Adam had blown it intentionally to gauge Babcock’s reaction. “Okay. Cabral didn’t tell me. Let’s just say someone mentioned you were a regular at Saffron Blue.”

“That’s right. I was-past tense. I haven’t been to the club in ages.” Babcock turned to Whitney. “What’s this got to do with your cousin?”

“You must have known Miranda. She worked there. You know, in the back room.”

Babcock’s expression never faltered. He casually sipped his scotch, then said, “You never mentioned that. You claimed your cousin walked dogs.”

“She did. Miranda also danced at Saffron Blue. I didn’t find out until after I went to your office.”

“You could have told me at lunch.”

Whitney gave him an apologetic smile. “It slipped my mind with the fire and everything, then Trish joined us. I forgot. Sorry.”

“I went to Saffron Blue on occasion.” Babcock didn’t seem fazed. Adam gave the lawyer credit. The guy was damn good. “You said your cousin looks a lot like you. I don’t remember-”

“Does the name Kat Nippe sound familiar?” asked Adam.

Babcock stared at Whitney. “Of course, now I see the resemblance. But Kat had jet-black hair. I never thought of her as a blonde.”

Whitney turned to Adam. “She must have been wearing a wig.”

“When was the last time you were out there?” Adam asked.

“It’s been a year and twenty-three days,” Babcock said matter-of-factly.

“How can you be so sure?” Adam wanted to know.

“I realized I was gambling too much. I mentioned it to a doctor friend while we were golfing. He told me a number of patients who took a certain medication to treat Parkinson’s became chronic gamblers, even though they’d never had the problem before. He suggested I see a doctor at the Mayo Clinic who’s been treating gambling addiction in Parkinson’s patients. The treatment blocks the same part of the brain the Parkinson’s medication affects. I tried it, and the pills work. That’s why I know how long it’s been. I don’t gamble any longer.”

“That was the last time you saw Miranda…Kat?” Whitney asked.

“Yes. I used to tip her quite a bit, when I won. It’s considered good luck to tip the back-room hostess.” He finished off the dregs of his scotch. “Come to think of it, Kat wasn’t around the last few months I was there. She quit or something.”

Adam waited for Whitney to ask if Babcock had encountered Ryan Fordham in the back room. Just then a blue Bentley pulled to the curb, and the parking valet hustled to open the passenger door. Right on its bumper was a metallic-silver Porsche. Out of the sports car stepped a knockout blonde in a black sheath that fit like a tattoo.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

WHITNEY NOTICED ADAM gazing over her shoulder, preoccupied by something. She didn’t want to be rude and turn around to look. There were answers she needed from the lawyer that were more important. “Did you happen to meet Ryan Fordham while you were gambling in the back room?”

“Your ex?” Rod asked. “No. I would have recognized his name on the documents you gave me and mentioned it. Besides, the reason we play in a private room is to play with guys we know.”

“I understand. I just wondered if he gambled there.” Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Adam was still watching something behind her. She wished he was paying better attention. She believed Rod was telling the truth, but she’d been fooled in the past.

“He could have started after I stopped gambling.”

“Possibly.” It didn’t really matter, she decided. It appeared that Miranda had quit even before Rod Babcock stopped gambling. Her cousin wouldn’t have run into Ryan.

“You see,” Rod added, “gambling can be an addiction. Once you’ve quit, you can’t go back. I haven’t had much contact with those guys. Oh, I run into a few of them here and there. But for the most part I avoid gamblers. I was in danger of gambling away everything. Luckily, I got out on the downward slide but before I hit the skids.”

Whitney wondered about Ryan. He’d been obsessed with making money in the last year or so. At the time she believed he considered financial rewards to be his due after years of schooling. Now she understood gambling had motivated him. Was he near rock bottom? Was that why he’d been so threatening the other day?

Desperation did unbelievable things to people. Could Ryan-Stop! This man was no longer her problem. Ashley was welcome to deal with Ryan’s gambling addiction.

“Walt, hey! Long time no see.” Rod waved to a man behind Whitney.

“Rod, what are you doing here? I didn’t know you were interested in art.”

Whitney turned to the tall, slender man who’d come up beside them. He was shaking hands with the attorney when Whitney recognized an achingly familiar voice. The deep baritone she’d heard a thousand times was just behind her. She stared down at the bubbles floating to the top of her champagne glass, her stomach in an uncontrolled free fall.

Couldn’t be.

Whitney edged closer to Adam as the hot flush of anger crept up her neck. She could feel Adam’s hand on the back of her waist as Rod introduced them to Walter Nance and Emily, his wife. Whitney had never met the surgeon who’d convinced Ryan to join his practice, but she instantly recognized the name.