Vanishing Act. Fern MichaelsЧитать онлайн книгу.

      ZEBRA BOOKS are published by

      Kensington Publishing Corp.

       119 West 40th Street

       New York, NY 10018

      Copyright © 2009 by Fern Michaels

      All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

      Zebra and the Z logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

      ISBN: 978-1-4201-1814-8

      Contents

       Copyright

      Prologue

      Chapter 1

      Chapter 2

      Chapter 3

      Chapter 4

      Chapter 5

      Chapter 6

      Chapter 7

      Chapter 8

      Chapter 9

      Chapter 10

      Chapter 11

      Chapter 12

      Chapter 13

      Chapter 14

      Chapter 15

      Chapter 16

      Chapter 17

      Chapter 18

      Chapter 19

      Chapter 20

      Chapter 21

      Epilogue

      Prologue

      Five Years Earlier

      It was a beautiful restaurant, beautifully decorated with well-dressed diners, discreet service, and ambience that had no equal. It was the kind of restaurant where there were no prices on the parchment menus because if you had to ask the price, you didn’t belong in The Palm, or so said the owner. Not the Palm Restaurant in New York. This was the Palm Restaurant in Atlanta, Georgia. On Peachtree Road. A hundred-year-old eatery passed down through multiple generations of the same family. When people talked about this particular restaurant, they always managed to mention Gone With the Wind in the same breath.

      Plain and simple, it was a place to be seen. Not necessarily heard.

      Not that the young couple wanted to be seen. Or heard, for that matter. They didn’t. They were there because they were celebrating the possibility of a business venture, and what better place than the Palm? Years from now, no one would remember that the couple had been there drinking priceless wine, eating gourmet food served on the finest china, and drinking superb champagne from exquisite crystal flutes.

      The woman was striking, the kind of woman men turned to for a second look, the kind of woman other women looked at and sighed, wishing they looked more like her. She was a Wharton graduate. Her professors had given her glowing recommendations, assuring all and sundry that she would go far in the world of finance. She believed them implicitly.

      The young man looked athletic, the boy next door, clear complexion, sandy hair. Tall, at six-two, a hundred and eighty pounds. He, too, was a Wharton graduate. He also dressed well—and women stared openly, men took a quick look and turned away, vowing to do something about their receding hairlines and paunches.

      They looked like the perfect couple, but they weren’t really a couple in the true sense of the word. Partners was more like it, but in time they would drift together, not out of passion but out of need.

      The man was fearless.

      The woman was a worrier.

      They were not compatible.

      The only real thing they shared was their mutual greed.

      The woman held her champagne flute aloft and smiled. The man clinked his flute against hers and liked the sound. A clear ping of crystal.

      “So, is it a deal or not?” the woman asked.

      “It has flaws.”

      “Every plan has flaws. Flaws can be corrected,” the woman said.

      “That’s true. I’m inclined to go along with it. But I think I need some reassurance.”

      The woman set down her glass and reached over for her clutch bag. It was small and glittery and gold in color. She opened it. There was only one thing in the small bag. She withdrew the little packet and slid it across