He rubbed his right temple and read the newspaper article with growing disbelief. Another dead body had been found in Central Park. Nothing too unusual. What was unusual—this was the second dead body of a woman he’d dated in the past two years. First Claudia Brinkley, and now Rowena Silverstone. Both of them had been missing for several weeks. Now they were dead. How could this be happening?

He sighed and let the newspaper fall limply to the table while he fumbled for sugar to add to his morning coffee. He’d debated having a screwdriver for breakfast, a little hair of the dog to cure the hangover headache pounding behind his right eye. But this clinched it. He’d save the drink until after the police left.

He ran his hand over his rough stubble and debated whether or not to shave. Would he look too calm and collected if he did? Or would he look falsely distraught if he didn’t? No matter what, the police would form their own conclusions. Drake had the uncomfortable feeling they wouldn’t even come close to the truth.

It had all started three weeks ago when Rowena went missing. Over the next fourteen days, twelve of his ex-girlfriends had disappeared. In the beginning, he was sure it was a joke. He wasn’t sure which cop had conceived of it, but he pictured them each laughing maniacally as they showed up on his doorstep day after day.

Thankfully, in every case, he’d been able to produce an iron-clad alibi. Truthfully, he wasn’t concerned; he’d been relieved. Having his former girlfriends die decreased the stress of dating enormously. He had no more uncomfortable encounters with ex-lovers at the many charity events he attended. He certainly didn’t miss the women whispering about his multitude of sins to the others he set his sights on.

Unfortunately, when the number of missing women reached a full dozen, the whispering started again. Only this time, it was accompanied by pointing fingers and speculation.

He wasn’t responsible. But damn it, he didn’t have a shred of proof. Where in the world did the police think he was hiding a dozen women, and why would he want to? Dating them one at a time had been hazardous enough.

It was just a matter of time before the police knocked on his door, and he’d have to go through the whole song and dance about his schedule again. How in the world was he ever going to prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that he wasn’t involved?

It was almost more than he could take to look at the detectives’ supercilious expressions as he detailed his activities. A couple of hours each morning at his gym, lunch at either the country club or at home, and then throughout the week he had tennis lessons, golf lessons, and dancing lessons. About twice a year, he’d be contacted by his agent to film a commercial for one of his sponsors. He couldn’t help being famous—now, could he?

He couldn’t help it if those women had found him attractive. He hadn’t chased them; they had pursued him. But the implications were the same. He’d dated them, they were missing, and now two of them were dead. Claudia, the cosmetic heiress, had been high maintenance and a royal pain in the ass, but Rowena… He pictured her sparkling brown eyes and remembered her delightful, whiskey-voiced laugh. Hell, Rowena had dumped him. It was hard to believe she was dead.

Someone really hated him. But who?

The police would ask him if the women had posed a threat to his celebrity status, and wonder if perhaps he’d snapped and become a serial killer. This time, Drake knew the questions they asked would be even more involved. It was just a matter of time before there was a gap in his schedule for which he couldn’t account or the lack of a reliable witness to his whereabouts. Then he’d be screwed. The police would pounce on him like a fox on a rabbit, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.

With dead bodies surfacing, it was going to be hard to convince anyone he was the intended victim. Even in his own mind, he knew it sounded self-centered and narcissistic. He also knew it was common for the guilty to claim they were framed. In his case, however, it was true. Though it was doubtful anyone would believe him. He needed to find someone who knew him to help him out of this mess. Only one person came to mind. But would she take his case?

He ran his hand through his hair and found his gaze drawn to the Monet painting covering the wall safe on the opposite wall. Inside the safe rested something more precious than all his sports endorsement contracts, money, stocks, and bonds. It was a pink, heart-shaped, two-carat diamond ring.

He’d bought it two years ago for the one woman who had stolen his heart.

Sapphire McKenzie.

Hell, she was the reason he’d dated those two dozen other women. Even now, he cringed when he remembered his botched proposal. He could picture it now, him down on one knee in the restaurant, and Sapphire wide-eyed with panic. Hell, she hadn’t even said no; she’d just run.

Her rejection had hurt more than when he’d ripped out the cartilage in both knees during the playoffs and lost his basketball career. Could he put away his pride and ask for her help now?

The doorbell rang, and Drake’s heart jumped into his throat. The police, already?