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But where she was concerned, they were going to throw away the key.
    Julia shook her head. Taking a deep breath, she did all she could to cool her fried nerves. She needed to focus on the real problem at hand—her father—who was God knows where and probably terrified out of his mind. The man had been missing for over twenty-four hours. He had high blood pressure as well as a heart condition. The factors couldn’t be serving him well. That was, if she still had a father.
    Closing her eyes, she fought to remember something her dad had said, something he may have let slip about his work.
    But no sooner did she do so than the memory of Colin’s kiss flashed in her mind. The way his silken lips had slid over hers, the feel of his hands caressing her scalp. The man was paradise with black hair, and she’d wanted nothing more than to surrender to the sweet bliss of forbidden passion.
    Julia clasped her damp forehead. What in God’s name was wrong with her? Aside from the fact that she had much more serious things to be concerned about, she knew better than to fantasize about candidates for America’s Most Wanted. Colin had said himself that he didn’t want anyone to know Tucker Dyson was missing. She’d heard him say it!
    Julia sighed. She had done everything short of setting fire to her brain to stop thinking about that kiss. Knowing why Colin had given it to her ought to have been reason enough to keep the memory repressed and buried. But it seemed that every time she closed her eyes—or opened them, for that matter—it all came back to her. Colin’s hard body. The feel of his warm mouth. The things that he could do to her with that mouth…
    “Nothing happened,” she said insistently. And it may as well have been nothing, because she was never going to see Colin Westwood again. She’d checked the balance in her savings account, and there was more than enough money to hire a private detective. It wasn’t the way she wanted to play things, but at least by sidestepping the authorities she might spare her father the fate of spending the next twenty to thirty years in prison.
    Paper rustled on the other end of the phone. It sounded as though Abigail was unwrapping Christmas packages. “By nothing, do you mean that no one saw you, or the authorities let you off with a warning instead of just giving you the death sentence?”
    “Touché,” Julia said, frantically flipping the channels for something to watch. There had to be some Saturday morning program that would distract her from Abigail’s pseudo-parenting, as well as her crazy fixation with a man who got a kick out of enticing women as a means of establishing power over them.
    “So,” Abigail went on, “are you going to tell me about him, or am I just going to have to use my imagination?”
    Julia was beginning to wish she had never picked up the phone. “Him?”
    “Quit playing, Julia. Is Colin Westwood still as handsome as he used to be?”
    That was one way of putting it. Colin Westwood had been handsome before, but the mysterious man she’d encountered last night had robbed her of breath. She recalled the way he’d taken her mouth—possessive, yet tender. He’d held her against him as though afraid to let her go. Doing so seemed out of character for such a strong, powerful man.
    “I never said he was handsome,” Julia clarified.
    “But you still haven’t answered my question,” Abigail pressed.
    Julia tossed the remote against the couch cushion. “He’s a guy, what do you want me to say? Nice hair, decent build. If you like that tall, dark, and deadly type.”
    “Which, you do.”
    “You’re way off base. Even his kiss was—”
    “He kissed you?” Abigail nearly squealed.
    Julia shut her mouth. She was so hell-bent on convincing Abigail that there was nothing to get excited over, she hardly knew what she was saying anymore. She’d known damn well that she shouldn’t have gone to the Westwood Mansion, and yet she’d gone there anyway.