CHAPTER 1

HOUSTON, TEXAS

     "ALLIE? IT'S ME." My sister Angela's muffled slur slides across the miles that separate us.
    A familiar tingle surfs the nape of my neck. The same tingle I used to get whenever Angela got into trouble and begged me to bail her out.
    " Sis, are you okay?"
Silence. Something's definitely wrong. Drink? Drugs?
    " Angela? Are you there? Don't do this. Talk to me!"
Her sigh sounds like a prolonged death rattle, then she manages a croaky, "I-I need to borrow money-a lot-twenty thousand -today. Can you make a wire transfer?"
I choke. That will just about drain my hard-earned savings.
    " Where are you?"
    " I-uh-at my bank."
    When I say nothing, her desperation crowds through. "I need
money! I need it now!"
    " Is someone making you do this? If you say yes, I'll call the police."
    " Just-get me the money. The account number is-" Her voice fades away, then she recites a long string of numbers. Too long for me to remember.
    "Hold on. I need a piece of paper. Found one. Now, repeat the numbers very slowly."
She does as I ask, then whispers, "Hurry."
    " Sit tight. I'll call my bank as soon as I hang up."
    " Thank God."
    The relief in her voice is no relief to me.
I call the bank, verify my savings balance and give the transfer number of Angela's bank in New York.
    Why don't I feel better? Why hasn't that awful tingle disappeared?
If Angela needs to borrow money from me, what has she done with her pile? Over the last seven years, she's made major bucks as a supermodel in New York. By now she should be worth close to a million.
    A few years before, I resigned as Assistant District Attorney with Harris County to take a job with Perkins, Travis, PC, Attorneys-at-Law. Perkins, Travis, a boutique law firm dealing in real estate holdings, has afforded me a comfortable lifestyle, but I consider my earnings paltry compared to my sister's.
--
    It's now almost five. My temples are throbbing from what I'm sure is life-threatening high blood pressure. I've been calling Angela's number since three. Now, when I get her chirpy,     "You know what to do, so do it," I hang up.
    Where are you, Angela? Did you get the money in time? My stomach knots with each question.
    As if in response, the phone rings and I grab it. "Angela?"
    " It's Duncan. There's a new French flick at the Greenway.
Starts at seven-oh-five. We'll grab a bite after."
Duncan Bruce is my ex-fiancé who lives three floors above me. Though it's been over a year since I returned his ring, we still see each other now and then-mostly movies and Dutch-treat dinners.
    It doesn't take me long to say yes. Phoning Angela every fifteen minutes is pointless and frustrating.
    I manage to make it through the Houston five o'clock traffic jams in record time and I'm just reaching for the "up" button when the elevator door slides open.
Duncan Bruce stands there, arms akimbo. If he were wearing a kilt he would be a walking ad for Scottish tourism. His cropped black hair echoes the jet of his eyes and bears that blue cast of the Celtic clans.
    He stabs at his watch. "I'm counting."
    Once in my apartment, I cross the living room to the answering machine. Nothing.
No time to freshen my makeup or to floss, so I swig some mouthwash, grab my purse and beat it for the elevator.
    The drive to Greenway Plaza is erratic and silent. Duncan is anal about getting his popcorn and taking his seat before the lights go down, so he's barely being civil.
It's a great movie, and by the time we walk through the steam bath of the underground garage to his car, Duncan is over his pique. He turns the key and his Porsche purrs to life.     "How about Chinese or Thai?"
    " I really don't care."
    " That's a switch. You're usually Miss I'll-Be-The-One-To-Decide." Duncan studies me for a few seconds. "Want to tell me what's bothering you?"
I launch into the bizarre call from Angela, her request for the twenty grand and the fact that I haven't heard from her all day. His face fills with concern. "Seems like this isn't the evening for eating out. How about my place?" He gives me a triumphant look. "I hit the jackpot. A fantastic Pinot Noir for only eight fortynine at Spectrum. Case price. I bought everything in stock. Wait until you taste it."
    Duncan is a great cook and has an exceptional talent for finding fabulous vintages at bargain prices, but I remember the drill so well: a little wine, a little food, a little kiss-a little sex.
    His smile dies when I say, "Another time, okay? I'm really worried about Angela."
To my surprise, Duncan leans across the console to meet my lips, then lurches away as if he were stung. "Sorry about that."
    He guns the motor, jams the car into reverse and doesn't say a word the whole way home.
Ever the gentleman, Duncan sees me to my door and apologizes for his temper tantrum. But when he leans forward to plant a kiss, I let it land on my cheek and murmur, "Guess I better try Angela again."
    My apartment is freezing. I notch the thermostat up a few degrees and punch the speed-dial.
    My spirits rise when the receiver lifts but quickly fall when I realize I've pressed the wrong button and dialed Carolina Montoya, Angela's roommate. Through blaring salsa I can barely make out, "Bueno?"
    " Hi, Caro. It's Allie. I've been trying to reach Angela all day.
Do you know if she's there?"
    " Nooooo."
    " But, Caro, she phoned me this morning, told me she was in the city and would be waiting for my call. Do you know anything about it?"
    " Sorry, Chica, can't help you." Then I hear her gasp, "More, more," and realize she's occupied on another level." Okay, then. I guess I'll just have to wait. Sorry to bother you."
    " No problema."
    The salsa ratchets up another notch or two and the last words I hear before the connection breaks are, "Don't stop, mi amor, that feels so good."
    As I place the receiver back in its cradle, I can't help but think about my sister's roommate. Over the past couple of years, Carolina Montoya and I have knocked back more than a few glasses of wine and shared some pretty personal confidences. Not only that, she once helped me out of a very sticky Manhattan real estate situation. Houston clients had found the property and I was handling their side. We were near closing when everything started to go south. I was stuck in court litigating and couldn't leave and asked Carolina if she would make personal contact with the seller. Let's face it-a gorgeous woman has a distinct advantage when it comes to men. She went to the address I gave her. Empty. It was a dummy corporation. We rescinded our offer.
    Bottom line: Caro's little excursion saved my clients close to two million and me my job.
Though she comes from a wealthy Madrid family and on first glance bears the haughty mien of old European money, you forget all about who Caro is, and where she comes from, the minute she opens her mouth.
    Everything is "freeging fantastico." Everybody is "freeging fabuloso."
    She loves to tell jokes but never gets the endings right. In short, she's a hoot.
If I had to describe her I would say she reminds me of a panther.
Though she's somewhat shorter than Angela, her body can wiggle like an eel, or wave like chiffon in the wind.
    Her jet-black hair and large almond-shaped eyes the color of midnight set off high cheekbones. And her mouth, one of the most sensuous I've ever seen, is generally set in perpetual upturn.
    But lately Angela's been complaining. There's a new man in Caro's life. Someone Angela doesn't seem to care for. I shove that thought aside and head for my bed.
After a fitful sleep punctuated by dreams of Angela's frantic calls, I have just settled behind my desk when my phone rings and Angela says, "It's me."
    " Damn it, why didn't you call me back yesterday? I jumped every time it rang."
    "Lay off, will you? The place is a friggin' mess. That damn Caro. I've had it with her."
    " Did she tell you I called?"
    " No. I haven't laid eyes on her in weeks, but if I ever get my hands on her, I just might-"
Since I have nothing on my agenda I hang up and head toward the managing partner's office. When I explain Angela's predicament and point out the pathetic number of recent real estate deals with none on the horizon, Will Travis suggests I take an "of counsel" position. That way I can retain those elusive health insurance benefits-as long as I make the payments.
After a friendly handshake, I do what I've done since the day I became the "older" sister. I pack my Beretta Tomcat .32, a gift from Dad when I joined the DA's office, and dive into my sister's life without giving my actions a second thought.