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“She’s forty-six, single. Never been married. And don’t give me grief for saying she’s on the sturdy side, and plain-looking.”

“And how is that relevant?”

“What’s relevant to me is since she’s been representing Sparks, since she’s been visiting him at least weekly, she’s spruced up. Taken off some weight, wearing better clothes, had the gray taken out of her hair, that kind of thing.”

“You think she’s doing that for him? That she’s fallen for him, like my mother fell for him?”

“It slides right in to the adding up.” He glanced over as Hugh walked back.

“I needed to check. Jessica Rowe contacted my publicist last year, and again six months ago, trying to arrange an interview. She pitched for an interview with you, honey, three times.”

“I never heard of her.”

“What have you told our mutual publicist to say regarding interviews or comments on the kidnapping?”

“The answer’s always no.”

“And she said no, every time. I’m going to assume she tried to contact Aidan, Lily, other members of the family.”

“My mother.”

“Most certainly. Charlotte wouldn’t have said no if she saw any advantage.”

“Which would connect her with Sparks again,” Cate murmured. “I still don’t see what this writer, lawyer, could mean in all this.”

“What would you do for love?” Red speculated.

What would she do? Cate asked herself after she walked back home.

Not kill, not help to kill. Not kidnap a child.

But what other lines would she cross?

She didn’t know. She’d never been tested.

Maybe because she’d learned—early—to take care with who she loved.

Her family, always her family. Darlie, who was the next thing to a sister to her. Luke, but who wouldn’t love such a sweet, happy boy?

Noah. Oh, she had loved Noah, as openly, as freely, as fully as she’d known how. And if, in the end, he’d disappointed her, she’d never blamed him. Not fully.

She walked to the glass wall, looked out to sky and sea, so much blue, so much beauty, and searched her heart.

No, she hadn’t fully blamed him, but a part of her had. Maybe still did. And fair or not, holding on to that part of her had made her wary of loving like that again.

She’d given her body if not her full and open heart to two other men who hadn’t deserved it. Who wouldn’t be wary?

After all, when a Sullivan loved, really loved, it was forever.

With that on her mind, she went upstairs to her bedroom, opened what she thought of as her memory box. Playbills —including the one she’d had signed by the cast and crew of Mame —ticket stubs, all the way back to her childhood, the recipe for soda bread—one she’d committed to memory long ago—in Mrs. Leary’s careful handwriting.

And the little gold heart Noah had given her for her eighteenth birthday.

She hadn’t worn it since the day he’d walked out of her life, and still she’d kept it.

Testing herself, she put it on, studied herself in the mirror, tracing the heart with her finger as she had so many times before.

A little pang for what had been, but no longing, and more important, no regret. It was only a memory, after all, a symbol of a sweet time. She had loved him, she thought as she took it off again, put it back in the box. As much as she’d known how at eighteen.

“But not forever, not for either of us.”

What would she do for love? Maybe it was time to find out.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Work always helped. Closing herself in her studio, focusing, becoming took her out of herself. She knew something in the back of her brain would and could work on the problem—both problems—while she produced.

The external problem wanted to terrify her, and she couldn’t let it. But the idea that someone—Sparks, if Red’s instincts proved accurate—arranged killings, with her kidnapping at the center, rated some terror.

Revenge? It seemed like such a useless motive. He’d never get the years back. At the same time, he risked spending the rest of his life behind bars.

How could it be worth it?

She pushed herself through three hours in the booth, then deleted the last twenty minutes in edit.

Not her best work there, and the client always deserved her best.

By the time she’d finished, sent the file to the producer, she wanted a break like she wanted to breathe. A long shower did the trick, especially since she kept her mind as empty as possible.

A walk through the orchard over ground strewn with fallen blossoms polished it off.

In the kitchen, she followed Consuela’s recipe for marinade—one with some zip—covered chicken breasts with it, put it aside. She made tortillas Consuela’s way. They didn’t look as perfect as Consuela’s, but she hoped they’d pass the taste test.

She’d never asked if Dillon liked Mexican food, she realized as she chopped tomatoes for salsa. Well, she hoped he liked Mexican food, because that’s what he was getting.

Chicken fajitas, frijoles, rice, salsa and chips, and flan to finish it off.

Considering the weather—pretty damn perfect—she set the small table outside, added candles. Why not?

She left the door open to the air as she sliced onions, peppers, took the chicken out, sliced it into diagonal strips.

Consuela had been very specific there, and—thank God—had been generous enough to make the guacamole for her.

She wasn’t sure she was up for that.

By the time Dillon walked in, she had everything prepped for the cast-iron skillet (borrowed from Consuela).

And when he walked in with a handful of wildflowers, she realized the back of her brain, or some part of her, had worked on that internal problem.

He walked straight to her, wrapped around her, kissed her like a man who seriously meant it.

“You smell great.”

“Is it me, or the salsa?”

He leaned down to sniff her neck. “Pretty sure it’s you. From the field.” He offered the flowers.

Everything inside her went to mush. “You picked them?”

“I didn’t have time to buy any. One of the Angus cows decided it was a good day to calve. She needed a little help.”

“First, wildflowers from the field are the best of the best.”

“I’ll remember that.”

“Second, you helped deliver a baby cow?”

“Yeah. Usually they do just fine on their own, but now and then they need a little help. Good-looking bull calf. We may keep him that way.”

She hunted up a vase. “What way?”

“A bull.”

“What else would … oh.” It genuinely made her shudder. “Ow! You do that?”

“You can’t have a herd with a bunch of bulls, trust me.”

“I bet the little baby cows trust you, too, right before you—” She mimed snapping scissors.

“If they were cows I wouldn’t have to—” He mimed back. “Is this salsa up for grabs?”

“It is. I hope you like Mexican food.”

With a tortilla chip, he scooped up salsa. “What’s not to like? Pow,” he said when he tasted. “I also like pow.”

“Then you’re in luck. I still don’t like beer, so I’m having margaritas, but…” She got a Negra Modelo out of the fridge, poured it into a pilsner, added a wedge of lime.

After he studied it, he studied her. “You’re the perfect woman.”

“That’ll get you all the fajitas you can eat.”

“I can mow down some fajitas.”

“Before I start on those, let’s sit outside, with your beer, my margarita, and this salsa.”

“Sounds good. Did Darlie and the baby get off all right?”

“Bright and early. She texted me awhile ago to let me know she’d stopped at a friend of her mom’s. They’ll stay there until morning rather than drive straight back to L.A.”