NEXT MONTH
Prologue
“Renee, are you available? There’s a call for you on the private line in your office.”
Olivia’s voice drew Renee’s attention away from the limousine taking off from the front of the town house to enter the 68th Street traffic. It was carrying her husband, Preston, and her daughter, Haley, to a matinee.
With Preston newly released from prison, it should have been the best of times for her family, but the man who’d come home a few months ago was a pale shadow of the one who’d left. Worse yet, she barely recognized Haley, who’d recently transformed into an angry, rebellious teen.
Renee promised herself that she would hold her family together and make things right, but now, she had a job to do.
With an incline of her auburn head and murmured thanks to her personal assistant, Renee Dalton Sinclair crossed the Persian rug and passed the spiral stairs on the first floor of The Gotham Rose Club to head back to her office. Nervous excitement made the back of her neck itch. The only person who ever called on her private line was the Governess, a mysterious benefactress who was well placed in the government. Whenever the calls came, one of the Gotham Rose’s undercover spies soon took on a dangerous mission to bring down a high-society criminal.
Whoever the Governess was, she’d been powerful enough to pull the strings necessary to have Renee’s beloved husband, Preston, released from prison early. Despite Pres’s refusal to discuss what had happened, she knew he had been the scapegoat for his corrupt family and their investment firm.
The Governess had approached Renee four years ago with a deal. In return for Pres’s early release, Renee started an undercover organization with her exclusive Gotham Rose women’s club. Renee had started the club to get New York’s wealthiest young heiresses to put their names and fortunes to good use by raising money for charity. The secret spy club included only a small number of the more than two hundred Gotham Rose members. The women were trained to take down upper-class citizens who used wealth and power to cover their crimes.
In the quiet sanctuary of her office, Renee secured the door, then slipped into her powder room and locked that door too. Making herself comfortable on the overstuffed, white love seat, she lifted the receiver from the vanity table.
“This is Renee Dalton Sinclair.”
“Renee…I trust you’re enjoying Pres’s return?” the mechanically distorted voice began.
Renee was overjoyed to have her husband back, but the sound of his name spoken by the disembodied voice sent chills through her. Was there a threat lurking beneath the Governess’s question?
“I love my husband,” she answered simply, her tone ringing with conviction. “Having him home has brought the life back to our house.” In the ensuing silence she added, “Of course, I’m grateful for everything you’ve done—”
“Preston Sinclair was innocent,” the Governess cut in. “Now let’s move on to the business at hand. Have you seen the story in the papers about the two models who were killed in their Miami apartments? Another model was caught at Miami International yesterday, trying to smuggle heroin in a case of bubble bath.”
“I saw the stories,” Renee confirmed. “You’d think that fashion models would have more options than the poor desperate souls who normally end up being mules in the drug trade.”
The Governess expelled a contemptuous puff of air. “Someone made those models an offer they couldn’t refuse. We need to identify this drug ring, find out who’s at the top, get the evidence and take them down fast.”
Shifting the phone and its cord, Renee used her key to open a drawer at the carved antique vanity and remove the large file containing pictures and press information on all the Gotham Roses. Some of the women were just members of her charitable organization, which required all its members to pay twenty-five thousand dollars to join, ten thousand a year thereafter, and then asked that they help raise at least one hundred thousand dollars annually. She knew by heart which members were also a part of her undercover organization. They were the best, the brightest and the most capable women imaginable.
“We need someone who can move in the modeling world without raising suspicion,” she murmured, paging past several members. “Someone they would actually welcome.”
“We also need a high-profile, well-connected operative who can take care of herself. Vanessa Dawson would be ideal,” the Governess said firmly. “We’ve arranged for her to get a contract with Inside Sports magazine for the Fantasy Swimsuit edition.”
Finding Vanessa’s gorgeous picture and press information in the stack, Renee shook her head. “Vanessa left the modeling world under less than ideal circumstances,” she said. “It would take a lot to get her back into that life.”
“The stakes are high,” the Governess insisted. “Lives have been lost. The murdered models moved in circles that include some of the younger members of the old-money set. What if there is a connection between their money and the models acting as mules for the drug trade?”
What, indeed? As an heiress and bona fide member of the old-money class, nothing surprised Renee anymore. Bored people with more money than they knew what to do with were unpredictable. Renee closed her file, already imagining Vanessa back in the wild, unpredictable world she’d barely escaped. She knew Vanessa could successfully complete the assignment—but at what cost?
Chapter 1
In the secret basement training room at the Gotham Rose Club, mirrored walls surrounded a hardwood floor dotted with mats. Covered with protective gear beneath her loose, white workout gi, Vanessa Dawson flicked back her highlighted ponytail and aimed a long-legged side kick at trainer Jimmy Valentine.
He blocked it with a padded, muscular forearm. “Good kick, Vanessa, but we know your kicks are always good. Move in and throw some punches.”
Vanessa hadn’t planned to spar with Jimmy. She’d arrived early to work off a little frustration and excitement before her scheduled tea with Renee. Once Jimmy had spotted her at the abdominal machine, he’d refused to take no for an answer. She’d been long overdue for a training session. Now here she was sparring with the master of several martial arts forms, while she tried to preserve her fresh manicure.
Knees slightly bent, Vanessa crouched in a ready position. Tonight, she, Madison Taylor Pruitt and Tatiana Guttmann were going out for dinner and a night on the town. That meant she would not have time to sit through another manicure. Wrinkling her nose and lifting her arms, she balled her hands into fists and curled the thumbs underneath. Her fists flew, connecting with his protected forearms more often than she liked.
Jimmy laughed. A lock of shiny, dark hair fell over an eyebrow to lend a rakish appearance to his handsome face. With his good looks and height, he easily could have graced the pages of a fashion magazine. “C’mon, Vanessa, hit harder. You won’t be fighting the girls. You have to be able to trade more than a few punches with a man.”
That got to her. Was he calling her a sissy? A wimp? Vanessa took pride in her ability to adapt the various fighting styles and techniques Jimmy insisted on teaching and make them her own. Because of her family’s wealth and her days spent strutting down the catwalk or preening in front of a camera, most people thought she was eye candy and about as useful as a Christmas tree ornament in the middle of spring. She knew that nothing could be farther from the
