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  I heard, "It's Diana!" a few seconds before my field of vision narrowed into a dark tunnel. I glanced at my half-finished martini on the bar. What the heck?

  I stumbled as I bent over to put my guitar back in its case. The last thing I saw was Andre reaching out to catch me as I plunged into murky darkness.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I opened my eyes to see Andre and my sister staring down at me. Ashley gasped and cried, "Thank the Lord!"

  I heard Roger from somewhere beyond my field of vision. "Told you she just needed to sleep it off."

  I tried to sit up, but my head exploded in pain. "What happened?" I croaked.

  "You drank too much and passed out again!" Ashley chided.

  "But I only had one drink." My head swam, and my voice sounded whiney. Maybe it was two. "No, I wasn't drunk. Tell them, Andre."

  Andre looked worried. "She definitely wasn't drunk when I got there."

  "Don't try to protect her, Andre. This is becoming a problem, Diana."

  Phil stepped into my line of sight. "How about when you almost fell off the stage last week? That fall could've killed you."

  "I wasn't drunk. I hadn't had anything except iced tea before that show. I must've been fighting off the flu or something. Besides, you all saw that the heel to my boot was broken off. I'd like to see you try to walk down a staircase on a broken six-inch heel."

  Phil made a dismissive noise in the back of his throat. His glossy hair was perfectly coiffed, his suit expensive and tailored.

  Roger stepped forward. "Look, Diana, we're not trying to put a damper on your good time, but you have to admit this does seem to indicate you have a problem. What if Andre hadn't been there? You could've been hit by a bus."

  "What is this, an intervention?" I asked sarcastically.

  "Maybe it should be," Ashley shot back. I sent her a dirty look and craned my neck to look for Andre.

  He was standing in front of my desk piled high with unanswered mail. "What are these, Ashley?" He pointed to the pile. I couldn't see much more from my angle.

  Ashley walked over. "Those are the fan letters I opened today. She had weeks of them on the desk unopened. I put aside the nicest ones for Diana to see."

  Ashley held up a standard size sheet of white paper. It had been layered with intricate paper shapes that gave depth to page. From this angle it looked like a picture of an empty stage. "Aren't they beautiful? This fan must be into scrapbooking. She's used like ten different techniques in just this one picture. I thought I'd save them all in one book for you." Ashley continued to prattle on about trying her own hand at scrapbooking without much success.

  Andre took the paper from her and studied it more closely. He walked back over to the desk and grabbed another. I thought I saw a street scene with a car approaching an intersection.

  Roger took a deep breath. "Okay, let's get back on track here. Diana, we have one more performance. Can you stay sober enough to do it?"

  I gritted my teeth. "Are you kidding me? I've been sober for cripes' sake! Maybe somebody slipped something into my drink!" I blurted out.

  Ashley stared at me. "Really, Diana? Isn't that a little far-fetched? Isn't it more likely you just lost count of how many drinks you had? Maybe you should just admit you have a problem."

  I sank back into the pillow, too tired to argue.

  "Oh, she definitely has a problem," Andre called from over by the desk.

  "See, even Andre agrees with us," Roger said. Phil and Ashley nodded smugly in agreement.

  I felt a niggling of concern. Andre always gave it to me straight. I turned my head painfully in his direction.

  He walked over with a handful of the scrapbook pages. He laid them out across my lap. The paper was thick and creamy and covered with a collage of colored bits of paper, ribbons, buttons, and other odds and ends. The layers and shapes gave the picture a 3D appearance like the pop-up books I loved as a child. I frowned as a picture started to appear beneath the pretty colored paper. I gasped at the image below the seemingly empty stage. A boot with a broken heel lay on the stairs and a twisted body in black faded into the bottom of the page.

  "Someone's trying to kill her."

  * * *

  There were three scrapbook pictures. Most alarming was that each picture seemed to depict an accident that had already taken place.

  There was a page depicting the fall off the stage, another showing a heavy speaker falling from the scaffolding and crushing me (a near miss that had happened a week prior), and a third that depicted a scene from one of the narrow streets of Key West. At an intersection a car was stopped in front of a prone figure in the middle of the road.

  The envelopes were all addressed with printer labels and had been sent to my PO Box. There was no return address, and they were postmarked approximately a week apart from different states.

  "Look," I pointed to the postmarks. "These were all sent from towns we played in. What if someone on tour with us sent these?"

  Ashley nodded. "Probably not a coincidence." Her voice was grim.

  "This is just a crazy fan," Roger said for the tenth time.

  I shook my head staring at the pictures again. "I can't believe you thought these were pretty Ashley."

  Ashley was upset. "All I saw was the pretty paper and ornaments. Until you look at it up close, you can't really tell what it is."

  I nodded. I could see that.

  "Maybe it's just a joke," Phil said. "You know, a prank or something."

  I raised my eyebrows. "The one of the intersection has 'Death to Diana' spelled out among the pretty pink flowers."

  Andre had been on the phone for nearly an hour. I was drinking black coffee and starting to feel a little better. I sat up and scooted over to the edge of the couch. My head was ringing, but the nausea had passed.

  Andre put down the phone and came over. "I have a nurse coming to draw blood. I'm pretty sure someone slipped a roofie in your drink. I'd have rather done all this at the hospital, but those two were worried about starting a riot." Andre nodded at Roger and Phil.

  "I also want you to be somewhere that's secured with our people. It would be tough at the hospital. The local police are sending over a detective to take our statements and look over the threats."

  I nodded. "Did Mark call while I was asleep?"

  "No. I tried to call him, but wasn't able to get through. I left him a voice mail. He was still a day's sail away when you spoke to him last night. There's nothing he can do for us except worry at this point."

  "I can't believe someone's threatening to kill me." I stared glumly off at the clear blue sky and sparkling ocean. "And in such a weird way!"

  "Yeah, I've seen threatening letters made from magazine clippings and newspapers, but I've never seen this scrapbook technique. Leave it to you to have Martha Stewart for a stalker." He gave me a grin and patted my hand.

  I pointed to the picture of the stage. Andre had carefully placed each page in a large Ziploc bag. "That means someone sawed my boot heel off, and the spilled drink could've been my iced tea. Maybe it was drugged too. It's someone close to us!" I gasped.

  "There were a hundred roadies and assistants running around that stage. Our scrapbooker could have snuck in during the chaos and tampered with your shoe and drink. They were both in your dressing room, right?"

  I nodded, my mind racing. "So someone has been watching this place, just waiting for me to leave? With a roofie in his pocket?"

  "Appears that way." Andre's matter-of-fact answer left me cold. I'd been caught up in some sticky situations before, but I'd never felt like this—stalked, hunted. I might as well be wearing a big bull's eye on my back.

  "And when I took off, he followed me to that bar, waited for me to go to the bathroom, and then slipped something in my second drink. I guess he wasn't expecting you to show up and rescue me." I smiled. "How'd you get me home anyway?"

  "He showed up here with your guitar in one hand and you slung over the other shoulder," Ashley snickered.
<
br />   I glared at her.

  "Well, it was funny until we found out someone is trying to kill you." She made a sad face.

  A thought occurred to me. "Maybe they have a security system at the bar with cameras. Did you check with Eli?"

  Andre shook his head. "Called him first thing. They don't have a camera system, but he did serve a fellow a beer near your side of the bar when you were in the bathroom. He said he remembered the guy because he wasn't dressed like a pirate. He had on a Braves baseball hat, and when Eli made a comment about the Braves, the guy didn't seem to have a clue what he was talking about."

  "Any other descriptors?"

  "Short brown hair, tan, slim build, late twenties, lots of tattoos."

  "And into scrapbooking?" I asked. "That just doesn't fit. I think it's more plausible there are at least two people working this. Someone infiltrating and setting up the accidents and another person making the scrapbook pages."

  Andre shook his head in wonder.

  "No offense—but wouldn't it be a whole lot easier to just shoot her?" Ashley asked.

  I glared at her. "Thanks for that pleasant thought!"

  Andre held up a hand. "She's right. This looks like a classic stalker case, but something just doesn't add up. If this person is a maniac, then they're highly skilled at this. They're smart enough to set up these elaborate accidents." Andre sighed.

  "Maybe they're just trying to scare me," I suggested.

  "That would explain the kooky scrapbook pages," Andre nodded.

  We lapsed into silence. Phil and Roger were across the room with their heads bent over a laptop. Not a good sign. Why was this happening to me? I didn't go out of my way to piss people off. I liked to think of myself as a nice person. Evidently, someone out there didn't agree.

  I groaned thinking about what Mark would say. It wasn't exactly easy to be my boyfriend. It was completely not my fault, but things had a history of going wrong on a regular basis in my life. Mark had rolled with the punches for the most part. We'd met under some pretty strange circumstances, and I'm sad to say not much had changed over the last six months.

  Ashley handed me a glass of water and patted my shoulder. "Hey, look on the bright side, Sis. You've got a stalker. You're now officially a rock star."

  CHAPTER THREE

  My phone rang, jolting me out of my roofie induced haze. The detective and the nurse had been in and must have left silently after I nodded off for the third or fourth time.

  It was Mark. I knew he wasn't going to be happy. In fact, I'd be lucky to get away without hearing, "I told you so" a dozen times. While our relationship had had its share of rough, even dangerous, moments, this was the first time I'd been drugged by someone.

  "Hi, Mark," I croaked.

  "Diana? Are you okay? I just got Andre's message. What happened?" His voice was choked.

  "I'm fine now. Luckily Andre was with me when it happened."

  "So, I heard the message right? Someone drugged you?"

  "It appears I have a stalker," I said more calmly than I felt.

  "Diana, stalkers tend to follow you around and watch you. It sounds like you've got a psychopath following you. You were drugged!" Poor Mark, being with me was not a walk in the park.

  "I know. I guess he didn't tell you about the scrapbook pictures."

  There was a long pause.

  "Did you say scrapbook pictures?"

  "Yeah, they're like warning letters depicting attempts on my life."

  There was cursing on the other end.

  "You've been getting threatening letters and decided to keep it to yourself?"

  "No!" I scrambled to explain. "I hadn't opened my mail. They've just been sitting there. Ashley found them today, but didn't realize they were threats because they were so pretty." Now that I thought about it, the threatening letters were actually warning me about the attempts. If I'd have opened them, that is.

  Again a pause as he tried to visualize pretty, threatening letters. "How many?"

  "Three." I sighed. Mark had not been happy about this tour.

  "Three! There have been three attempts on your life?" He was incredulous.

  "Yeah, remember the boot incident I told you about last week? Based on the pictures, we think someone tampered with the heel and might have drugged my iced tea. And, of course, there was the speaker incident—"

  "What speaker incident?" Mark interrupted.

  "Oh, yeah, I forgot that I kept that one to myself. I'm sorry, Mark. I just didn't want you to worry."

  I had a vision of him raking his hands through his hair. I always seemed to have that effect on him.

  "Look. You stay where you are. Don't leave Andre's sight. Can't believe I'm uttering those words," he growled. Andre and I had a romantic entanglement in the not so distant past. Everything was completely platonic now, but Mark had a hard time with my ex-boyfriend guarding my body. "I'll be docking around eleven tomorrow morning. Find someplace safe to hide out tonight."

  "Aye, aye, Cap'n!" I said with sarcasm. I got the feeling Mark thought this was somehow my fault. "You know I didn't ask for this."

  "No," he agreed, "but you've got some cosmic karma that seems to attract it."

  Couldn't really argue with that one. Instead, I changed tactics. "I miss you."

  The hard edge left Mark's voice. "I miss you, too. This long distance relationship stuff sucks. I can't wait to get you alone."

  I laughed. "What will you do with me?"

  We spent another fifteen minutes discussing the possibilities before hanging up.

  I rose unsteadily to my feet and stretched. The endless orange sunset beckoned me to the deck. I sank into a chaise lounge chair and gazed out at the water. I closed my eyes with a sigh. I still felt tingly after my conversation with Mark. He had that effect on me.

  It was dark when I opened my eyes. Something had jolted me awake. I looked around. I could hear Ashley's voice in the distance. I saw Andre standing a few feet away.

  "You going to make it?" he asked as he sat down on the end of the lounge chair.

  I nodded. "What time is it?"

  "Almost ten. Ashley saved you some dinner if you're hungry."

  I made a face. "Not a chance."

  "You'll be good by the morning according to Wikipedia."

  "Nice—getting medical advice from the internet. Nothing but the best for this rock star."

  Andre laughed. "That's the spirit."

  I sat up, and my phone clattered to the floor.

  Andre handed it to me. "Looks like you missed a call."

  I looked at the display. Unknown number. Uh-oh. I clicked the voicemail button and listened to the message. I couldn't believe what I was hearing. Andre watched me closely as I brought the phone away from my ear in slow motion. He took the phone away from me and pressed the message again, this time playing it through the speaker.

  "Yo Shorty, this Tyrell. We need to talk. Tomorrow's visitin' day. Best be here, if you want to live."

  Andre cursed.

  I shuddered. The last time I'd seen Tyrell he'd been pointing a gun at me. As far as Tyrell was concerned I had two strikes against me. The first being I was the girlfriend of the CIA agent who was responsible for his brother's incarceration. And the second being that I was Carlos' singing partner. Tyrell couldn't come to terms with the fact that he'd gotten beat up by a crazy-ass pirate. His threats had become all out vendetta that ended with him ambushing us on stage during a performance. Now he was behind bars in Miami-Dade County Prison waiting for me to pay him a visit. His words echoed in my mind. Was Tyrell behind the threats?

  "I'll make some calls to Miami. He can't think you'd actually go to see him. He's a complete nut case."

  "But what if he knows something about these threats?" I reasoned. "If you get him in trouble, then we won't find anything out. I've got to go see him."

  I couldn't believe I had uttered those words. Road trip to Miami-Dade Correctional Facility. Not exactly on my top ten list of things to do in Southe
rn Florida.

  Andre stared at me like I was crazy. Actually, his look wasn't all that unusual.

  "Of all the things you get yourself into—" he began.

  I held up a hand. "I didn't get myself into this. He called me."

  "So how'd he get your number?" Andre asked.

  "Well, he must have saved it from the last time he was threatening me."

  Yeah, I felt stupid saying that.

  Andre rolled his eyes upward. "I can't believe you didn't change your number."

  I pointed a finger at him. "Hey—you're my bodyguard. How come you didn't think of it?"

  He stared at me for a few seconds. A muscle ticked in his cheek. He huffed and turned on his heel, heading out the door.

  I felt a moment of satisfaction. It wasn't often that I got the best of Andre. Even when we had been hot and heavy a couple of summers ago, he had been more of a hall monitor than a boyfriend. Granted he was super sexy in that tall, dark, handsome, and I-can-kick-some-ass way of his, but I just wasn't into being bossed around by my boyfriend. Besides, he wasn't very good discussing personal details. Namely, he'd forgotten to mention he had an estranged wife.

  The glow of my triumph faded as I realized I'd have to face Tyrell tomorrow. Not to mention Mark's reaction when he arrived and found out we were headed to a prison instead of a nice comfy bed.

  * * *

  "We're going where?" Mark stared at me. His dark brown hair was ruffled from the wind, and up until a few seconds ago, he'd had a smoky, bemused expression on his face that made my toes curl and my stomach flip-flop. We were standing on the deck of his Uncle Ed's boat, now docked in front of the Key West villa.

  I played Tyrell's message for him. Mark raised his eyebrows and gave me the look.

  "I've got to go see him! He knows something."

  Mark ran his hands through his hair. "Diana, he's the guy who tried to kill you less than six months ago. I'll go talk to him. Better yet, I'll make a few calls and have someone visit his cell." Mark's face darkened. I wasn't sure if he had connections in the prison, but he was ex-CIA. So I suppose anything was possible. Mark's ex-CIA status was a regular bone of contention for us. The main reason being the ex-CIA status came with an ex-partner named Marsha who looked like a playboy model, fought like a marine, and had taken more than a professional liking to Mark. Did I mention she also hated my guts? Enough of a reason to want him to stick to the relatively safe and predictable occupation of commercial real-estate developer.