“Just having one eye narrows it down. I’ll see what I can learn.”
“Thank you.” She was aware he might use her request as a bridge to other things, but that was a situation she’d have to handle if and when it occurred. He’d heard the name, she thought. Yes, he probably knew a lot of people with the last name of Diaz, but still, it had meant something to him in the context she meant. For some reason he was being cautious, hiding his cards. Maybe he’d had dealings with Diaz in his more disreputable past, and he didn’t want it known.
Dessert was being served, yellow cake with chocolate icing. She waved hers away but accepted coffee. The time was approaching when she would have to speak, and she wanted to gather her thoughts. These people had paid forty dollars a plate for some truly unremarkable food, and some of them would write a separate check to Finders afterward; she could at least give them a coherent speech.
By ten-thirty, speech made, thank-yous offered, and hands shaken, Milla wearily climbed into her vehicle. As she was about to close the door, True called her name and strode over to her.
“Will you have dinner with me tomorrow night?” he asked, with no lead-up or preparational flirting, which she greatly appreciated, because she was so tired now she didn’t think she could handle even a mild verbal dance.
“Thank you, but I have another fund-raiser in Dallas tomorrow night.” And she looked forward to it almost as much as she would have looked forward to having a tooth pulled.
“And the day after tomorrow?”
She smiled wryly. “The day after tomorrow, I have no idea where I’ll be. I can’t guarantee anything.”
He let a few moments of silence tick by. “That’s a hard life, Milla. There’s no time for anything personal.”
“Believe me, I know.” She sighed. “I couldn’t go to dinner with you anyway, because of the situation.”
“Which is . . . ?”
“You’re a sponsor of Finders. I can’t risk damaging the organization with my social life.”
Another moment of silence. “You’re honest,” he finally said. “And up front. I admire it, even though I think I’m going to change your mind.”
“I think you’ll try,” she corrected gently.
He laughed, the sound deep and masculine and delicious. “Is that a challenge?”
“No, it’s the truth. Nothing on this earth means as much to me as finding my son, and I won’t do anything to jeopardize that. Period.”
“It’s been ten years.”
“I don’t care if it’s been twenty.” Because she was so tired, her voice was sharper than she’d intended. What he’d stated was too much along the lines of what her brother, Ross, had said to her, that it was time to put it behind her and get on with her life, as if Justin’s life was over and done with, as if love had a time limit on it. “I don’t care if it takes the rest of my life.”
“It’s a hard road you’ve set for yourself to travel.”
“It’s the only road I can see.”
He lightly slapped her door and stepped back. “For now. I’ll find out what I can about this Diaz you’re hunting, and get back to you. Until then, be careful.”
That was an odd thing to say. She stared at him, the words penetrating her bone-deep weariness. “You know something, don’t you? About Diaz.”
He didn’t answer directly, instead saying, “I’ll see what I can find out.” He walked toward his own car, and Milla stared after him.
Yes, he definitely knew something. And what he knew must not be good, for him to be warning her to be careful.
A chill ran down her spine despite the heat that lingered even this late at night. She was on the right track. She knew it. And following it might well get her killed.
6
Sometime during the night, Milla woke with a thought crystal clear in her mind: she hadn’t looked at the cell phone display of the number for the call telling her about the meeting in Guadalupe. The number might not be important, but then again . . . it might. Still groggy from fatigue and sleep, she stumbled out of bed and turned on the overhead light, blinking in the painful brightness. She retrieved the phone from her purse, turned it on, then went through the menu to the most recent calls. There it was, and it was an El Paso exchange.
She had already hit redial when she glanced at the clock and saw it was twenty after two. Hastily she pressed the end button. Whoever it was would wait until the morning, and probably be more cooperative for it.
She wrote the number down, turned out the light, and went back to bed. This time she dreamed disjointed fragments that made no sense and were immediately forgotten each time she roused enough to realize she was dreaming. Despite her restless sleep she woke at her usual time, five-thirty, feeling almost normal. Today was Sunday, she realized, the one day of the week she didn’t go to the office—unless something came up. At least half the time, though, something came up. Children didn’t care what day of the week it was when they wandered away from home, nor did kidnappers fret about it.
She stayed in bed another fifteen minutes, luxuriating in the lack of urgency. She so seldom got to sleep late that she almost never did, even when she had the chance, but it was nice not to have to leap out of bed and get a start on the day.
Just as she was about to get up, the phone rang. She groaned as she threw back the covers and jumped up. She was accustomed to calls at all hours of the night—and early morning—but they almost always meant a job and her stomach tightened as she answered the call.