Using the bar of soap from the wall-mounted wire rack and a washcloth, he scrubbed his entire body twice. The shampoo on the rack smelled like peaches, but he used it anyway. His fingers told him how long his hair had gotten without him quite realizing it. He’d been overdue for another military buzz cut when he’d almost died. After that, no one bothered with his hair.
He dried himself, then found his comb in the dop kit and slicked his hair back behind his ears. It hung down to the nape of his neck. He found a throwaway razor in his kit, but there wasn’t any shaving cream. He used the bar of soap to lather up.
Adam caught his reflection in the gold-rimmed mirror. Beneath brown brows a shade darker than his hair, Calvin Hunter’s emotionless blue eyes stared back at him. Well, shit, what did he expect? He and his father, as well as Calvin, had all inherited Grandpa Hunter’s eyes. But his father’s and grandfather’s blue eyes had sparkled with life and good humor. He’d had those eyes once, too.
Dressed in the black T-shirt and jeans, he wandered down the hall in search of the terrace. The villa was obviously old but immaculately maintained. Potted palms with ivy cascading from their bases were dramatically placed among what had to be authentic antiques. He spotted armed men moving about-not quite out of sight. More guards?
“Thees way, meester,” called a small man who must be one of the servants. He pointed to a double set of French doors that were opened onto a terrace overlooking the magnificent harbor. The setting sun bled into the night and washed the sea with a peaceful amber glow that reminded Adam of his childhood years in California.
His uncle, attired in white slacks and a navy sports jacket, rose from a round garden table. He looked over his shoulder at the house, and Adam saw the curtains move, then caught a man’s profile. One of the guards must be watching to make certain Adam didn’t harm his uncle or something. Weird. Friggin’weird.
In his uncle’s arms was a small dog that had no fur on his body except for tufts of hair on his paws and tail. His head had some hair, and long hanks of fur sprouted from his ears. The poor mutt was a genetic disaster.
“Feeling better?” his uncle asked in a deep baritone that matched his military bearing.
“Ask me after I’ve had a drink.”
Uncle Calvin gestured to a chair facing the view. “Have a seat. What would you like?”
His automatic response would have been “beer,” but he stopped himself. “Got a good pinot noir?”
“Of course.” His uncle turned to the servant and said something in Greek. The little man scuttled away.
Calvin proudly explained the goofy-looking canine was an international show champion. Not only had the dog taken Westminster “by storm,” the pampered mutt had won the Frankfurt International.
Adam decided his father would have hooted at how taken Calvin acted with a dog. When Calvin had retired from the navy, Adam’s father had expected him to spend time in San Diego, golfing and hanging out at the officers’ club. Instead, Calvin had gone into dog shows with baffling enthusiasm.
Who’da thunk? Calvin had taken to the show circuit. He became a judge and had flown around the country to dog shows. Soon he’d gained quite a reputation and had become an international judge, sought by dog shows worldwide.
Was the freaky little dog worth a lot of money? Was that the reason for the guards? Nah, he decided. There was too much security around to be guarding one small dog. Something else had to be going on.
The servant arrived with a glass of pinot noir. Adam took a sip. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d relaxed with a glass of wine.
“You’re probably wondering why I brought you here.”
“Didn’t give it much thought.”
Two beats of silence. When his uncle spoke there was a slight tremor in his voice that vanished after the first few words. “Adam, what was it like to be in the crosshairs of death?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
His uncle gazed into the distance for a moment. “I need to know-”
“What in hell for?” Adam realized he’d shouted. “Sorry. It’s hard for me to talk about. My good buddies died-yet I was lucky enough to live. It’s not cocktail conversation.”
His uncle’s gaze softened. “I didn’t mean for you to think I was taking this lightly. I know it must have been…more horrible than I could possibly imagine.”
Adam almost said: Got that right. He stopped himself in time. He wasn’t firing on all cylinders here, but he could tell his uncle was anxious about something. “It was unreal. It happened so fast. I hardly had time to think.”
“Yet you escaped serious injury.”
“Lucky me. I can’t explain it. By some miracle, I survived.”
Calvin studied him for a moment, then spoke. “I think someone is going to try to kill me.”
Adam wasn’t certain he’d understood his uncle. He’d been pretty screwed up since the explosion. He didn’t respond for a moment as he let the idea settle in his brain. Who would want to kill a man who showed dogs? He thought about the guards and the armor-plated limo. Obviously, his uncle was more than just a little concerned.
“Who? Why?”
“Telling you would only put your life in danger.” He fed the dog sitting in his lap a bit of cheese from the platter of appetizers on the table. “As my only living relative, if anything happens to me…I’m asking you to investigate.”
The words detonated on impact. Adam jumped to his feet, sloshing the wine over his hand. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”
His uncle slowly nodded. “I wouldn’t ask this of you if I didn’t believe there’s a real-”
“You’ve got to tell me more. I can’t help-”
“Too much is at stake. I won’t put you in danger. You’ve suffered enough.”
Adam decided not to press his uncle right now. He’d always been an insular man. Calvin would tell him when he was ready. “If anything happens, I won’t give up until I learn the truth. You have my word on that.”
CHAPTER ONE
“THIS IS MY least favorite stop,” Miranda told Whitney with a sigh. The cousins pulled up to a mansion overlooking the Pacific on Old La Jolla Farms Road. They hopped out of the Grand Cherokee and unloaded Whitney’s Golden retriever from the back. Lexi at their heels, they walked up to a dazzling limestone estate with statuesque palms accenting the motor court in front of the home.
“Don’t you have enough dogs to service without a problem one?” Whitney asked.
“Brandy’s a love. It’s his owner who’s the pill. Trish Bowrather owns a swank gallery on Prospect Street in downtown La Jolla. She insisted on meeting you before she’ll allow you to take care of Brandy. My other clients know you’re my cousin and trust my judgment. Unless you screw up big-time, they’ll keep you.”
Miranda rang the bell and a few moments later, a patrician looking blonde in her mid-forties greeted them with a withering expression.
“Your dog’s only pet quality,” she told Whitney before Miranda could open her mouth to introduce them.
Without looking down, Trish dropped a long-nailed hand to the shiny head of a Golden retriever the color of warm cognac. “Brandy could have been a champion, but I just didn’t have the time.”
Whitney tried for a smile that didn’t quite work. She knew many show dogs had professional handlers. If Trish Bowrather had really wanted to show her Golden, she could have hired a pro.
Ever bubbly, Miranda exclaimed in her cheeriest voice, “This is my cousin, Whitney Marshall. She’ll be taking over my route.”