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had made him the man he was today. Although they were on intimate terms, friends as well as lovers, she thought of him as Sanders, his surname the one used by all who knew him, even Griff and Yvette. In their private moments, she occasionally called him Damar, but in reality, Damar was a man she didn’t know, a man who belonged to a past that she could never share. A past that belonged to a dead wife and child.
    Unlike Griff’s wife, Nicole, her dear friend, she accepted the fact that Sanders had secrets he chose not to share with her. But where she managed to curb her curiosity about the man she loved, about the years he had spent with Griff and Yvette, the three of them captives of a madman, Nic probed relentlessly into the past. Nic needed to know; Barbara Jean did not. It was enough for her that Sanders loved her now, and that he was loyal to the commitment they had made to each other. Perhaps it was because she had known from the very beginning that she was not the great love of Sanders’s life.
    When she paused her wheelchair at the door, their guest waiting with her, Sanders rose from behind the desk. “Please come in, Mr. Chambless.”
    The tall, broad-shouldered biracial athlete resembled his photographs, a handsome man with a toned body. But where in every picture Barbara Jean had seen of him, he’d been smiling, today he looked as if he might never smile again. Grief hung on his shoulders like a heavy shroud. The man had lost his wife only a month ago.
    When Tagg Chambless entered the study and strode across the room, Sanders came out from behind the desk and met him, his hand extended. Sanders was much shorter than the six-five former NFL star, but equally impressive in his own way. The first time she saw Sanders, she had thought he looked like Yul Brynner, the exotically handsome actor who had risen to stardom in the mid-twentieth century portraying the king of Siam in the Broadway production and later in the movie, The King and I . Same bald head. Same hot, dark eyes. Same regal, commanding manner.
    â€œMy lawyer, Robert Talbot, told me that the Powell Agency is the best money can buy,” Tagg said as he shook hands with Sanders. “Seems Bobby and your agency’s lawyer are old buddies.”
    â€œYes, that is my understanding,” Sanders said. “Camden Hendrix called me personally Saturday to set up this appointment today.”
    â€œYeah. And you might as well know up front that I wanted to talk to Griffin Powell himself about this and was told he was unavailable.”
    â€œMr. and Mrs. Powell are away on vacation.”
    Tagg nodded. “So I get the number-two man instead.” He glanced back at Barbara Jean, who remained in the doorway. “What about Ms. Hughes?”
    â€œCome on in, Barbara Jean.” Sanders motioned to her and then focused his gaze on Tagg. “Just as I am Mr. Powell’s associate and second in command when he and his wife are not available, Ms. Hughes is my associate and privy to everything that goes on at the Powell Agency.” When Tagg made no comment, Sanders indicated a chair near the fireplace. “Please, sit down.”
    After Tagg took his seat, Sanders sat in the chair across from him. Barbara Jean entered the room and eased her wheelchair behind Sanders.
    â€œI think Mr. Hendrix explained what I want,” Tagg said.
    â€œHe gave me the basic details—that your wife was murdered approximately one month ago, the police have done all they can and have no suspects in the case, and you want to hire the Powell Agency to do an independent investigation.”
    Tagg leaned over, his shoulders slouching with weariness, and sank his large, clasped hands between his spread knees. With his gaze directed to the floor, he breathed in heavily and released a deep, tortured sigh.
    â€œYou have no idea what it’s like to see your wife’s dead body lying in her own blood…to know that she