Chapter
One

Jasmine Adams peered through her rental car windshield at the gaudy glass and brass high-rise, then back to her cell phone to try her sister one more time.

This is Jessica Adams; please leave a message and I'll get right back to you.

Jessica's chirpy TV voice usually made Jazz smile, but hearing the message for the umpteenth time simply made her boil. Or maybe it was Miami's 200 percent humidity, which had long ago melted the spunk out of her new spunky hairdo and wrapped her whole body with perspiration. Back home in San Francisco, she'd need a leather jacket on a November evening; here, a thin cotton tank top was plastered to her skin.

"Come on, Jessica," she told the answering machine. "I'm not even late, for once. Where are you, Miss Never Met a Clock You Couldn't Beat?"

As night darkened the skies, the towering buildings came magically to light, spilling rivers of white and gold over the blackness of Biscayne Bay. Jazz scanned the deepening shadows under the palm trees and hibiscus bushes around the manicured grounds. What kind of self-respecting private investigator sat in the downtown Miami darkness unarmed?

But she wasn't here as a private investigator. And Jessica had gone all whiny at the idea of Jazz bringing a Walther P99 Compact into her brand new condo. Because this whole outrageous plan was for Jessica, Jazz had agreed. That was her mantra this week: This one is for Jess. Her chance to help her sister, after all the times Jessica had covered for her.

So where the hell was she, anyway?

Probably hung up at the TV studio, unable to answer her cell phone, and the station switchboard was closed now. Well, she had a key and knew the alarm code to Jess's condo—but what about the doorman?

Don't tell anyone, her sister had warned in a brief e-mail a few days ago. No matter what, don't tell anyone that you aren't me. We'll talk when you get here.

The doorman would be the first test. If the trendy new haircut—complete with oxblood highlights for that perfect anchorwoman-red—didn't fool him, it was better to find out now, before they tried to pass her off as Jessica Adams for the six o'clock news tomorrow night.

She climbed out of the car and headed toward the entrance. Squaring her shoulders to match that self-assured walk her sister had mastered when they were fourteen, Jazz opened the smoky glass doors into a lobby sparkling with marble and a two story glass-beaded waterfall.

Behind the high-gloss reception desk, a uniformed young man looked up from a newspaper and nodded to her. "Hello, Miz Adams," he said with a Spanish accent.

She flashed her best TV-trained smile.

"Have a nice evening," she called out as she strode toward a bank of elevators, exuding Jessica's natural warmth, but not enough eye contact to invite conversation. Then she realized she had no flaming idea where she was going.

She slowed down near the elevators, faking a dig for her keys while reading the brass placard to figure out which one took her to the thirty-seventh floor. She glanced back at the guard, who openly stared at her.

It was the clothes, no doubt. Jessica would endure physical torture before she'd ever wear a skin-tight wife-beater tank, Army-Navy store cargo pants, and biker boots. The bell dinged and in a moment, she was safe in a marble and mirrored elevator car, staring at her reflection in the smoky glass.

She stabbed her fingers into the "modified spikes" her hairdresser had re-created from Jessica's publicity shot, and stifled a giggle of anticipation. Leaning closer to the mirror, she dabbed at her lip gloss and brushed a smudge of melted mascara from under her eye.

As long as no one saw them together, they could pull it off. Next to each other, they were easily identifiable. One had perfect hair, tailored clothes, a confident tilt to her chin, and that elusive sparkle in her eye that wowed the camera and anyone else within a five-mile radius. The other… well, that would be Jasmine Adams.

But one week with Jazz filling in at the anchor desk of WMFL Channel Five News would not ruin Jessica's charmed career. In fact, Jess was certain her career would catapult because of what she was doing off-camera while Jazz was on. She'd refused to give a single detail about what it was, but tonight, Jessica would explain.

As the elevator doors opened, Jazz stepped into a wide hallway lit by wall sconces casting indirect light that exuded wealth and exclusivity. She walked down the carpeted hall, slid the key into the door of apartment 3701, and opened into pitch blackness. Flattening her hand against the wall, she felt around for a light switch or the alarm pad.

Copyright © 2005 by Roxanne St. Claire