Deep tide, p.1
Deep Tide, page 1
PRAISE FOR LAURA GRIFFIN AND HER NOVELS
“Wow! Laura Griffin is quite simply one of the best romantic thriller writers out there. Tightly plotted, character-driven, Vanishing Hour keeps the twists and turns coming all the way to the heart-stopping finale. I was on the edge of my seat until the very last page. Highly recommend!”
—New York Times bestselling author Karen Robards
“Yet another winner for Laura Griffin. Vanishing Hour has everything I love in a book—a gripping mystery, sizzling chemistry, plenty of action—and a dog!”
—#1 Wall Street Journal bestselling author Melinda Leigh
“This page-turning romantic thriller hooked me on page one and held me to the end. A must-read.”
—New York Times bestselling author Mary Burton
“I love smart, sophisticated, fast-moving romantic thrillers, and Laura Griffin writes them brilliantly.”
—New York Times bestselling author Jayne Ann Krentz
“Gritty, imaginative, sexy! You must read Laura Griffin.”
—New York Times bestselling author Cindy Gerard
“Top-notch romantic suspense! Fast pace, tight plotting, terrific mystery, sharp dialogue, fabulous characters.”
—New York Times bestselling author Allison Brennan
“A gripping, white-knuckle read. You won’t be able to put it down.”
—New York Times bestselling author Brenda Novak
“An emotional, exciting page-turner. Griffin deftly balances the mystery and the love story.”
—The Washington Post
“Griffin never disappoints with her exciting, well-researched, fast-paced romantic thrillers.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“A high-adrenaline thriller that will keep you on the edge of your seat. . . . Griffin is a master.”
—Fresh Fiction
Titles by Laura Griffin
Standalone Novels
Far Gone
Last Seen Alone
Vanishing Hour
The Texas Murder Files Series
Hidden
Flight
Midnight Dunes
Deep Tide
The Tracers Series
Untraceable
Unspeakable
Unstoppable
Unforgivable
Snapped
Twisted
Scorched
Exposed
Beyond Limits
Shadow Fall
Deep Dark
At Close Range
Touch of Red
Stone Cold Heart
The Wolfe Security Series
Desperate Girls
Her Deadly Secrets
The Alpha Crew Series
At the Edge
Edge of Surrender
Cover of Night
Total Control
Alpha Crew: The Mission Begins
The Glass Sisters Series
Thread of Fear
Whisper of Warning
The Borderline Series
One Last Breath
One Wrong Step
The Moreno & Hart Mysteries, with Allison Brennan
Crash and Burn
Hit and Run
Frosted
Lost and Found
BERKLEY
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
penguinrandomhouse.com
Copyright © 2023 by Laura Griffin
Excerpt from The Last Close Call copyright © 2023 by Laura Griffin
Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.
BERKLEY and the BERKLEY & B colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
Ebook ISBN: 9780593546727
First Edition: April 2023
Cover design by Rita Frangie
Cover photo by Romanets / Shutterstock
Book design by George Towne, adapted for ebook by Estelle Malmed
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
pid_prh_6.0_143301904_c0_r0
Contents
Cover
Praise for Laura Griffin and Her Novels
Titles by Laura Griffin
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Excerpt from The Last Close Call
About the Author
_143301904_
For Kerry
CHAPTER
ONE
A cell phone went off during the vows.
Leyla Breda kept her attention on the bride and groom, trying not to react as her aunt leaned forward and glared down the pew. Two seats over, Leyla’s cousin rooted around at her feet and looked dismayed as she picked up a stylish silver clutch.
Leyla’s stylish silver clutch.
Her heart skipped a beat as the phone chimed again. Leyla grabbed the purse and quickly silenced the ringtone—but not before noticing the number on the screen.
Which could only mean one thing.
Leyla stood up and quietly slipped out of the pew. Reaching the door to the chapel, she darted a glance toward her brother, who was so enamored with his beautiful bride that he didn’t notice the disruption.
Yeah, right. Her brother noticed everything. Joel was a police detective. But he had wisely chosen to gaze into Miranda’s eyes and not destroy the moment.
Leyla hurried into the foyer, trying to imagine what level of catastrophe would prompt her assistant to call her right now. She opened the chapel’s outer door and stepped into the late-day sun.
“What’s wrong?” Leyla asked Siena, the second-in-command at her fledgling catering business.
“They haven’t started yet, have they?”
“They started at six.”
Siena gasped. “I thought six thirty!”
“It’s okay, I stepped out. What’s wrong?”
“I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to—”
“Siena, what’s wrong?”
“It’s the cake.”
Her heart skipped another beat as she envisioned the glorious four-tier tower of buttercream smashed to the ground.
“What about it?” Leyla asked.
“Well . . . I can’t find it.”
“What do you mean? Rachel was supposed to deliver it to the venue at four.” She checked her watch. “It’s six twenty-five.”
“Rachel called in sick.”
“What?”
“And Wade, too. Rachel said she asked Amelia to fill in for her, but I haven’t seen her yet, and the wedding coordinator said—”
“Did you call Amelia?” Leyla was already striding toward her car.
“Yes, but she’s not answering. Neither is Rachel or Wade and—”
“I’ll get it myself.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m on my way now.”
“I’d go get it, but we’re shorthanded and I’m still finishing the canapé trays. If you want, I can—”
“No, finish the canapés. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
Leyla slid behind the wheel of her SUV and glanced at the little white chapel. Any moment the doors would open, and the happy couple would emerge, and Leyla didn’t want them to see her speeding out of the parking lot.
Shorthanded was an understatement. If Wade and Rachel were out sick, that meant only four servers for a reception of an estimated ninety people. But it was going to be more than that. Leyla had counted every last body in that chapel, twice, and she’d come up with a firm one hundred. Why didn’t people RSVP anymore? It was so infuriating.
Four servers wasn’t going to cut it, not by a long shot. Siena would have to help replenish food a t the buffet table, and Leyla would have to cut the cake.
Leyla raced down the highway toward her beachfront business. The Island Beanery was known far and wide for scenic views, creative beverages, and mouthwatering pastries that had been written up in magazine features. Leyla had recently expanded into catering. Her brother’s wedding was only her fourth gig, and that was if you counted the bridal shower she had thrown for Miranda. But Leyla didn’t count that because the menu had consisted of finger sandwiches and petits fours—yawn—and anyway, the whole thing had been a gift.
Leyla eyed the clock on her dashboard as she neared the coffee shop. She had probably fifteen minutes to get her cake to the reception venue, unbox it, and decorate the table with rose petals, all before the newlyweds arrived for their big entrance. The endless task of posing for wedding photos had taken place already. As a photographer herself, Miranda had insisted on having the pictures completed beforehand, so the wedding party wouldn’t be held hostage by a fussy photographer when everyone was ready to hit the bar. Once the ceremony was over, it was time to celebrate!
Leyla had wholeheartedly agreed with this approach, but now she wished she had more time to get her act together.
She whipped into the Beanery parking lot and used the key fob to pop open her SUV’s cargo space. Lifting the skirt of her long dress, she dashed up the sidewalk, taking care not to trip. Her sky-blue satin dress and strappy sandals were perfect for a springtime wedding at the beach, but not so perfect for cake deliveries.
A lone pelican perched on the deck rail, looking on as Leyla unlocked the door and let herself in. The café closed at six, and the interior was dim and quiet now, with dust motes floating in the air. Propping the door open with a rubber wedge, she glanced behind the counter to the refrigerated display case and immediately spied the wedding cake with its cascade of sugar-icing roses. Everything looked intact.
“Thank God,” she murmured.
Pride surged through her, quickly followed by panic.
She glanced at the clock on the wall and looked around, wishing she had someone here to help her move the damn thing. The cake was surrounded by a custom-made box with a sturdy base and cellophane sides. Leyla opened the refrigerator, and chilled air wafted over her. She stuffed her key chain into her strapless bra, slid her hands beneath the box, and eased the cake from the fridge. It was heavy. Peering around the box, she maneuvered around the counter and crossed the dining area to the front door. Scooting sideways through the opening, she gripped the corners of the box as a breeze gusted over the sand dunes.
She prayed that she wasn’t about to trip on her hem as she crossed the parking lot to her SUV. Sliding the box into the cargo space, she released a breath of relief. But her relief was short-lived as she rushed to lock the shop, then jumped behind the wheel and checked the clock. Speeding toward the reception venue, her mind toggled between the twin horrors of slamming on the brakes and making the cake topple over and—literally—bumping into the bride and groom with their wedding cake at the moment they made their grand entrance.
Leyla turned onto the palm-lined drive of The Breakers and sucked in a breath. Guests were arriving, and the first few rows of cars had already filled in. She pulled right up to the front and parked, leaving just enough room for Joel and Miranda’s limo, in case they showed up before she had a chance to move. Springing from her SUV, she glanced around for someone to help her.
A man in a black tuxedo leaned against the building, scrolling through his cell phone. He was one of the groomsmen, someone who had been through the police academy with Joel. Leyla had met him at the rehearsal dinner last night, but damned if she could remember his name. Was it Eric? Ethan?
“Evan, hey!”
He looked up, startled, and Leyla flashed him a smile.
“I need some help.”
“Me?”
“Yes! Can you give me a hand with this?” She looked around and spied a tall, dark-haired man sauntering down the sidewalk. Leyla had no idea who he was, but he wore a suit and was obviously a wedding guest. “And you!” She waved him over. “I need your help!”
He glanced over his shoulder.
“Yes, you. Can you give me a hand here, please?”
The groomsman was standing beside her car now, eyeing the giant cake box with a look of abject terror.
“You want me to carry that?”
“No. I’ll carry it,” she told him. “I need you to open the doors.”
“I’ll carry it.”
She glanced up to see the man in the suit gazing down at her with the most amazing ocean green eyes she’d ever seen.
“It’s heavy.”
He raised a brow.
“And kind of wobbly,” she added. “I can carry it, if you’ll just hold the doors as I go in and clear any obstacles.”
“You’re liable to trip in that dress.” He eased past her and smoothly lifted the cake from the cargo space.
“Careful,” she said, her throat tightening as she watched him casually holding more than a dozen hours of painstaking work—the very future of her business—in his hands.
“Where to?” he asked.
She glanced at the door, which was now being held open by the groomsman—who looked immensely relieved not to be tasked with walking a towering wedding cake across a banquet hall.
“The main room, just past the buffet table,” she answered. “There should be a special table set up and—” She looked past the man’s shoulders as a black limousine turned onto the palm-lined driveway. “Crap, they’re here! We need to hurry!” She clapped her hands at him. “Go go go!”
* * *
• • •
Sean Moran slipped away from the party. The bride and groom had left under a shower of rice, but people were still milling around beneath swags of white lights, drinking the couple’s booze and enjoying the breeze off the water. Sean would have liked another drink, but he needed to get back to his condo. As he crossed the wooden bridge spanning the sand dunes, he spied a woman on the beach with a champagne flute in hand.
Leyla Breda.
Her formfitting dress looked silver in the moonlight, and it shimmered against her body as she strolled toward the surf. Nearing a piece of driftwood, she dropped her shoes to the sand and sat down. She nestled the flute at her feet, then lifted her arms and twisted her dark hair into a knot at the top of her head.
Sean stopped at the end of the bridge. He had about a hundred things left to do tonight, including contacting his boss.
Instead, he walked over to Leyla.
“How’s the champagne?”
She jumped and turned around. Recognition flickered across her face, and her shoulders relaxed.
“It’s good.” She held up her glass. “You didn’t have any?”
“Nope. Can I get you a refill?”
She smiled. “What, are you a waiter now, too?”
He stepped closer. “I’m Sean Moran, by the way.” He held out his hand. “We never actually met.”
“Leyla Breda.” Her handshake was brisk and businesslike, but the warm look in her eyes gave him hope.
“Joel’s little sister,” he said.
“That’s me.”
He turned toward the water so he wouldn’t be tempted to stare down the front of her dress.
“I didn’t get a chance to thank you earlier,” she said. “Things got really hectic.”
“Looked like you had your hands full.”
“So, are you here for Joel or Miranda?”
He looked at her. “Joel.”
She tipped her head to the side as she gazed up at him. “And you know him from . . . ?”
“Work.”
She frowned. “Here?”
“No. We go way back. We were in the same academy class in Houston, spent some time at HPD together.”
“Oh. That was a while ago.”
“Yeah.”
“So . . . the vice squad, then?”
“Yeah. Mind if I sit down?”
“Not at all.”
Sean lowered himself onto the other end of the sandy log. He didn’t like the direction the conversation had taken so he steered it back to her.
