Ashley was in for it now. Suggest a trial separation, he told himself. That would upset her no end. Wouldn’t it?

Ryan admitted to himself that he was no longer as sure of things as he once had been. His world had been on track. True, he’d had to make a midcourse correction and switch from general surgery to cosmetic surgery, but even then, things had gone his way.

The trouble had started with Whitney.

“Jesus H. Christ!” He cursed out loud and jumped to his feet. Would Ashley have gone to see his ex-wife? It was possible. After all, Ashley had given Whitney the dress that started this crappy argument.

He slung the towel over his bare shoulder and stomped inside. Ashley didn’t have an office. What the fuck would she need one for? She used the nook area in the kitchen to keep a few things, like her checkbook and calendar.

He threw on the lights and searched the nook. Not much. Travel brochures for Hawaii. Nordstrom catalogs. An accordion folder with returned checks filed by date.

He rummaged through the stuff, searching for her telephone book. She kept phone numbers in a small leather booklet. It must be in her purse, Ryan decided. He didn’t want to lower himself by calling the friend who’d helped her snatch Lexi, but if Ashley didn’t show in another hour, he would.

The only friend Ashley had ever mentioned was her personal trainer. They’d been close when Ryan first met Ashle. He’d never met the woman because she lived across town and 0worked most of the time at a gym. Come to think of it, he didn’t even know the woman’s name.

What gym? He could call there and see if Ashley was around. Shit! She hadn’t told him the name of the gym. Well, maybe she had and he’d forgotten it. He remembered Ashley saying she paid her friend in cash. The woman couldn’t afford to pay taxes. Unfuckingbelievable! Who could? He’d been forced to instruct his accountant to file late this year.

He searched through her returned checks, for lack of anything better to do. Manicures. Pedicures. Boutiques. Nothing extravagant, but still-it was money they hadn’t had. Ashley hadn’t known this, he reminded himself.

Dr. Jox. The check stopped him. The memo line indicated Ashley had purchased vitamins. That must be the name of the gym where Ashley’s personal trainer worked. He got the number from Information and called. He would have put it off, but most gyms closed at ten. He needed the number tonight.

“I’m a friend of Ashley Fordham’s,” he told the young-sounding guy who answered the telephone. “She recommended a trainer there. I was wondering if I could get her number.”

Ryan didn’t want word to go around the gym that he was looking for Ashley. He wasn’t sure why he gave a shit. Personal pride, he guessed. Not just every guy married a beauty queen. No sense in seeming jealous when he wasn’t.

“Her number?” the kid parroted back.

“Yes. Ashley really likes this trainer’s workouts.” Ryan heard a muffled sound as if the kid had put his hand over the mouthpiece.

“Just a minute,” the kid told him. “I’ll let you talk to my manager.”

Ryan waited, getting more irritated by the second. What was the big deal? He would have driven over there but Dr. Jox was halfway across town.

“This is Al Schneider. What can I do for ya?”

Ryan repeated his spiel. Silence. “The trainer is still working there, isn’t she?”

“You’re Mr. Fordham, right?”

Ryan started to deny it, then realized the guy must have his name on the caller ID screen. “Yes. Ashley recom-”

“That trainer isn’t accepting new clients.”

The manager hung up before Ryan could ask another question. What the fuck? He almost hit Redial, then stopped himself. Something was going on.

Why wouldn’t a trainer who needed money badly enough to risk trouble with the IRS not want new clients? He thought about it for a moment. He paid all their bills. He remembered commenting to Ashley about the number of calls made from their home phone. Not that it cost much; they had a wide-range dialing plan. But he knew he didn’t make many calls.

Back in his office, Ryan pawed through the growing cluster of bills on his desk until he found last month’s telephone bill. This would be the third month in a row that he’d neglected to pay it. He checked the local calls. Several were to the office he still had until the new group was up and running. Others he vaguely recognized. His service. Walter Nance.

One number came up several times. He thought he recognized it from previous bills but couldn’t be sure. He’d trashed them or he would be able to check.

Ryan plopped down into his chair and booted up his computer. It was cool inside and he rearranged the damp towel over his shoulders to keep warm. It took several minutes to locate an Internet reverse directory for San Diego and look up the number. It was registered to a Preston Block with an address across town.

Block could be the trainer’s father or a roommate. He studied the screen and memorized the address. He needed to speak to Ashley in person.

It took a little more than half an hour to drive to the address listed for Preston Block. It was a bunker-style two-story apartment building that wrapped around a pool with cloudy water. The place had been new in the seventies. From what Ryan could tell in the dark, that was the last time it had been painted. Exactly where he would expect a trainer subsisting hand to mouth to live.

He found the directory with Block/Swanson listed for apartment 2B. He stood there a moment to formulate the speech he’d mentally rehearsed on the way over. He didn’t want to admit how much he missed Ashley. He planned to say her father had called.

Was that even possible? Now he wished he’d asked more questions. He knew Ashley had suffered through her mother’s tragic death alone. Her father lived in some crummy town in the central part of the state, but he hadn’t come to the funeral. Had she told her father about their marriage? He didn’t remember Ashley mentioning it.

Unable to think of a better excuse, he climbed the stairs. A potted palm missing most of its fronds stood outside 2B’s door. He mustered an assertive knock.

A television was playing inside, but a moment later the door swung open. A surfer built like a brick shithouse stared out at him.

“I’m looking for Ashley Fordham’s trainer.”

“Preston’s out. He works nights now.”

He? He? Ashley’s personal trainer was a woman. Wasn’t that what she had told him? Ryan blinked and tried to recall exactly what Ashley had said. The first time she’d mentioned the trainer had been when they were in bed and he’d been admiring how perfect every inch of her body was.

I work with a trainer five days a week.

The guy’s smile evaporated. “Who are you?”

“Dr. Fordham. Ashley’s husband.” He couldn’t keep from adding, “I’m looking for her.”

“She’s not here.”

Ryan turned and trudged away without another word. Of all the scenarios he’d envisioned, he’d never imagined Ashley-his Ashley-being involved with another man. The knowledge made him dizzy, weak.

He ambled along, his mind unable to process any thought except: Ashley had betrayed him. He’d loved her so much-too much.

He’d given her everything she wanted, hadn’t he?

No, he silently corrected himself. There were things Ashley had wanted, like the house in the Coronado Keys. He’d been too strapped for money to purchase it. Ashley had spent her life on the road. She deserved a home of her own. If Whitney hadn’t been such a bitch, this never would have happened.