A Madaris Bride for Christmas. Brenda Jackson

      Prologue

      “Are you sure you saw what you think you saw, Carly?”

      Instead of answering her best friend, Carly Briggs took a sip of her drink. The liquid nearly scorched her throat going down. Vodka?

      “Where did you get this?” she asked, drawing in a cooling breath. As far as she knew, the only alcohol she and Heather Kramer kept in their apartment was wine.

      Heather shrugged. “Lori gave it to me. She cleaned house and said it was left over from the New Year’s Eve party she gave three years ago.”

      Carly remembered that party. She and Heather had just moved to Miami and into their apartment near South Beach. Lori Cummins, a neighbor who lived in the apartment across the hall, had thrown a party that weekend and invited them.

      “Now, let’s not get sidetracked,” Heather said, reclaiming Carly’s attention. “Are you sure you saw—”

      “I didn’t see anything,” Carly said, her agitation not yet helped by the alcohol. “It’s what I heard—coming through a vent in the wine room. Several men were arguing in the alley outside the restaurant. They accused this guy of being a traitor. Then I heard a gunshot that seemed to be muffled with a silencer.”

      The conversation was something Carly would never forget. The deep, raspy, intimidating voice of one man and the terrifying sound of another man pleading for his life. It was a wonder she hadn’t screamed and given her location away.

      Instead, she’d frozen and then her surroundings went black. The next thing she remembered was being awakened by Chef Renaldo, who didn’t want to hear anything she had to say about men and gunshots. Instead, she had been scolded about going over her break time by ten minutes and not pulling her load on a busy night.

      Fearing someone was possibly bleeding to death in the alley, she’d talked one of the staff waiters into going outside with her to look around. She’d made up some excuse about hearing a kitten crying. They had checked all over the place and found nothing.

      “Maybe you only thought you heard it,” Heather said, looking at her with concern in her eyes. “You even admit that Chef Renaldo woke you up. Maybe you dreamed you heard it.”

      Instead of taking another sip of her drink, Carly placed the glass on the table. “Why would I dream such a thing?”

      Heather stood and waved off her question. “How would I know? You’ve been working a lot of crazy hours and Chef Renaldo has been getting on your last nerve. Maybe all the stress is catching up with you.”

      “Maybe you’re right,” Carly said, although she knew Heather wasn’t right.

      She knew what she’d heard, which was why she’d arrived home tonight needing a strong drink, why she had called the police tip line. The tip-line operators promised to scramble callers’ phone numbers so the call couldn’t be traced. She was glad it was anonymous. The last thing she wanted was for anyone to think she was a loony tune.

      Carly stood. “I’m going to take a bath and go to bed. The restaurant is opening early tomorrow for a baby shower and I’ll be one of the chefs on duty to help prepare the desserts.”

      “But tomorrow is your off day,” Heather reminded her.

      “I know, but I can use the money.”

      “Now you’re making me feel bad about moving out.”