Chapter One
New York City

The phone call came at the worst possible time. Just as Erinn Winters was having lunch at Tavern on the Green with her new editor from hell. At precisely the moment the waiter set down their salads.

"Finally—great news, Ms. Winters," the calm male voice said at the other end of her cell line. Cordovan. In that instant, he had her full attention. She hadn't heard from him—or from anyone at Cordovan-Smith Security and Investigations—in more than two months.

"We've found her," Wayne Cordovan said. "We've found your sister."

In that instant Erinn forgot about Clare Bonham, frowning at her across the table. She forgot that she was planning to have a nervous breakdown later that day, and that if she didn't finish writing her latest Princess Devonshire book in very short order she was going to have to return every nickel of her advance and get herself a real job.

She forgot everything but the words Cordovan had just spoken in her ear. We've found your sister.

Her heart lifted and a dazzling relief rushed through her like golden sunlight in winter.

But then her gaze flicked to the subtly annoyed expression of her editor. Clare looked as if someone had superglued a lemon under her tongue.

Erinn knew she'd blundered by even answering her cell just as they were about to get down to business. Normally, she wouldn't have. But at the last second, she'd panicked and wanted to put off the central point of this meeting until she'd had time to gulp down at least half a glass of wine. So she'd impulsively scooped her phone from her bag, never expecting the call to be anything as important—and personal—as this.

"That's…that's very good news." She chose her words carefully and spoke as evenly as she could, flicking up one digit to signal Clare she'd be off in a minute.

No one in her present life knew anything about her search for Devon, or the truth about her own past. No one even knew her real name—except for Wayne Cordovan and his agency.

So she wasn't about to give anything away to the tall fortyish redhead in chic black sitting across the table, a woman who in Erinn's eyes represented the closest thing to a boss she'd known in a long time.

Erinn didn't deny she had a problem with authority figures. And Clare—with her protuberant brown eyes, air of breezy command, and repeated e-mails inquiring when the book would be turned in—definitely qualified as an authority figure.

It was therefore certain that Clare Bonham wasn't going to discover one thing about Erinn that Erinn didn't want her to know.

"I can't wait to hear all the details, but can I possibly call you back? I'm…in the middle of a business meeting."

"No problem." Cordovan didn't miss a beat. "Why don't you stop by my office sometime before three? I'm leaving for Rome, and I'm afraid I'll be gone for the next two weeks. If you can't get here before three, you can always schedule a meeting with one of my associates while I'm gone. But I have all the details right here on my desk, including some photographs, and I assumed you'd want to see the report on your sister as soon as possible."

"I do. Believe me, I do." The words flew from her mouth. She hadn't seen Devon in eleven years. Now the tiny chubby-cheeked four-year-old she'd kissed good-bye in their father's mansion that long-ago day was fifteen, a teenager herself.

And a runaway.

Just like me, Erinn thought.

But there was one big difference. Erinn had at least been eighteen, legally of age, when she'd fled Chicago and the stunning Lake Forest estate where Dane Stanton's word had been law.

Devon had vanished last year. When she was only fourteen. And no one in her family had seen her since.

Copyright © 2007 by Jill Gregory