The picture on the occasional table was standing in its proper place. I smiled complacently at it, then came to an abrupt, stunned halt.
I stared at it and began to swear. “That son of a b***h. That asshole. That—that—”
I might as well f*****g give him the key to my town house.
Instead of JessicaTheDumbBlonde, the photograph now was of a young woman who looked remarkably like Ingrid Bergman circa 1940. Mark Vincent had broken into my house once again—it couldn’t have been anyone else—and abducted the photograph that had graced that table, replacing it with this elegant beauty.
And then I started to laugh, and I laughed until I was gasping for breath. When I finally had myself under control once more, I pulled out my cell phone and speed-dialed his home number. I had convinced myself wh
