From the book
"Do you want your life back?" Grant Robinson asked Lana Corday as he stared intensely into her big brown eyes. Lana swallowed hard and lowered her gaze.
Grant, impeccably dressed in a tailored suit, was her attorney and one of the few men she still trusted.
He sat behind his cherrywood desk while Lana, too restless to sit, stood. He observed her as she mentally wrestled with his question. She had a sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of her nose and wide-spaced eyes that made her face, if not classically beautiful, very appealing. Her nose was strong, which gave her character, and her full mouth with a plump lower lip made him wonder about her stamina in bed. An inappropriate thought, since he was her attorney. But he
was also a man. She was five-nine, had mocha-colored skin, her eyes were a warm brown with gold striations in them, and she had chin-length burnt-auburn hair--a shade of which Grant had never seen on any other woman. Once he'd asked her where she'd gotten that shade of hair, she'd laughed and said her great-grandfather was Scottish.
Lana sighed and walked over to the huge picture window in Grant's San Francisco office.
She could see the Golden Gate Bridge from there. A few luxury yachts were in the Bay along with commercial cargo ships. San Francisco was her dream city. She adored the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art. Loved traipsing all over Fisherman's Wharf and often ending her visit with dinner at Alioto's. And she never tired of the luxury of the Palace Hotel. But now the city had lost its charm for her.
She turned back to face Grant. He was watching her with a quizzical expression on his handsome, tanned face. In a gesture of frustration he ran his hand through his thick, dark brown wavy hair that had begun to gray at the temples. Sighing, he asked, "Are you ever going to answer me? He abandoned you, Lana. It's time you admitted that."
"He was blown up on his boat. That's not abandonment, that's death," Lana said, still sticking to her assertion that Jeremy was deceased and not a criminal on the run as Grant and any number of other people, including the FBI, believed.
Looking out over the Bay again, her mind took her back to that fateful day nearly six months ago when Jeremy had kissed her goodbye and left for an outing on their yacht. "Just a few hours to clear my mind, babe," he had jauntily said before disappearing from her life forever.
Minutes later she was racing down to the dock next to the boathouse at their Bay-area home and looking in horror at what was left of the yacht, smoldering, listing leeward in the water. It had blown up with Jeremy aboard before it had even gotten fifty yards from the dock.
"There's no evidence Jeremy was onboard," Grant reminded her doggedly. "Believe me, if he had been killed aboard that yacht, forensics would have found at least some of his DNA. In two days he was going on trial for fraud, and if he lost his case he was going to be locked up for a very long time. He didn't want to go to prison so he blew up his own yacht and disappeared, hoping that desperate act would convince the authorities he was dead."
Lana stubbornly shook her head. She clasped the gold locket around her neck, a gift from Jeremy. "No, he loved me. He wouldn't have intentionally left me to face this on my own. He has to be dead."
Grant had seen this before, the loyalty of abandoned women who clung to any shred of hope where their worthless husbands were concerned. Although with Lana Corday, her husband had been worthless on a monumental scale. He'd allegedly bilked nearly half a...