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made a fortune by understanding the male species, and he’d bet a box of Los Bancos that those baby-blue eyes were trained to hunt, and those strong hands were able to kill.
    So, what was he hunting, and who was he killing, and how did it involve Vanessa Porter?
    He flipped the butt out the window. “Raoul!”
    The driver turned, training a bloodshot gaze on his boss. Raoul had been smoking again, and not a Criollo. “Yeah, mon?”
    “Did she see you when she came to the house?”
    “No. I was upstairs.”
    “Are you sure?”
    Red-rimmed eyes turned to insulted slits. “I am sure.”
    “Good.” Bones dug in the seat pocket for the notebook and pen that he kept there in case an idea came to him while he was being driven. Sometimes it was a line of poetry, sometimes an observation on the foibles of humanity, sometimes a game of hangman.
    He flipped to a clean page. “I want you to deliver a message to her. And I don’t want him to know about it. Can you do that?”
    “I can do that.”
    He scratched the words and folded the paper. “Here. Don’t screw up.”
    The only way to stop a hunter was to deflect him. He would start by sending the prey on a hunt of his making, one that would lead her to a controlled environment. A small place where he could watch her and move her around like a pawn on his chessboard. It was a little risky, but he didn’t think she could outsmart him. Hell, she might give up her search and get naked with the stud.
    But just in case that stud was hunting something Bones didn’t want him to find, and just in case Vanessa Porter was truly as relentless as she appeared to be…then this plan ought to shut him down and shut her up.
    If not, there were other, less civilized ways to accomplish that goal.

CHAPTER FOUR
     
     
    TRIPLETS. TRIPLETS ? FOR the second time in one day—hell, in one hour—Vanessa was dumbfounded. “Nobody even had triplets thirty years ago, did they?”
    He laughed softly. “They had them, it was just a surprise on delivery day.”
    “How could I not know this?” After all the research she and her father had done, it didn’t seem possible that a fact as monumental as there are two sisters slipped by some of the best adoption investigators Daddy’s money could buy.
    “Very few people do know about this,” he said.
    “No shit, Sherlock. Where are we going?”
    “You look like you’re going to faint,” Wade said as he ushered her to the same patio restaurant where she’d been less than two hours ago.
    “I don’t faint,” she shot back. “It’s a thousand degrees out, and you shocked me, and I—I’m reacting .”
    “Gotcha. Well, you look like you’re about to react, so let’s sit down in the shade here, under this umbrella, and have a cold drink and talk about it, okay?”
    His patronizing drawl infuriated her, but the suggestion had definite appeal. She needed something cold—and potent—to make sense of everything that had happened since she got off that boat.
    “Two iced mineral waters,” he said to the waitress.
    “And a vodka tonic,” Vanessa added. “But skip the tonic. And no lime.”
    One side of his mouth lifted in a half-smile. “You drink like you talk and walk. Tough.”
    “I hate limes. And tonic.” And you . She crossed her arms. “You’d better have proof.”
    “There’s no actual paperwork.”
    She slammed her hands on the tabletop and pushed back in the chair. “I knew this was totally bogus.”
    “But I have a picture.” He placed a photograph on the table between them.
    Wasn’t that a fine twist? For the first time in three days, she was being shown a picture instead of the other way around. Though she wanted to be a complete brat and refuse to look at it, curiosity won out. She squinted at the photograph, half expecting—and half dreading—to see a reflection of herself.
    “Oh.” The word was a note of pure wonder, matching the sensation that rocked her. “She’s beautiful.” Then she shoved the picture