St. Barth’s has a murder rate of zero. But that’s about to change. “Utterly delectable and addicting . . . Sunburned is what happens when Agatha Christie meets a thoroughly modern, sexy sensibility.”—Ashley Winstead, USA Today bestselling author of Midnight Is the Darkest Hour When Audrey Collet’s ex Tyson calls, threatening to expose the skeletons in her closet unless she helps him figure out who is blackmailing him, she wants nothing more than to refuse. Though their relationship ended over a decade ago, the scars are deep. And since his tech company made him a billionaire, he’s become more than a little eccentric . . . and paranoid. But a foot has washed ashore in the Everglades—that’s right, an actual human foot, encased in an Air Jordan—and Tyson is quick to remind Audrey that it’s one whose long-dead owner they both have a connection to. A connection that could prove problematic, if it got out. Audrey reluctantly agrees to meet Tyson at his home on the swanky Caribbean island of St. Barth’s to help him figure out who in his entourage is extorting him and what they know about the secrets he and Audrey share. Once there, she realizes that each person staying at Tyson’s lavish estate has a reason to wish him harm. Could the culprit be the gorgeous Belgian wife whose wings he’s clipped? The celebrity business partner he’s essentially holding hostage? The older brother who’s always been in his shadow? Or the sexy French butler he seems to trust more than he should? Audrey has only just scratched the surface of what’s going on behind closed doors when Tyson’s birthday dive turns deadly, and she realizes that one of the seven people trapped on his yacht with her is not just a blackmailer but a murderer. If Audrey can’t catch the killer in time, she might become the next victim. Advance praise for Sunburned “Utterly delectable and addicting . . . Sunburned is what happens when Agatha Christie meets a thoroughly modern, sexy sensibility.” —Ashley Winstead, USA Today bestselling author of Midnight Is the Darkest Hour “A sizzling, page-turning romp . . . Katherine Wood delivers a clever tale of what happens when the rich and beautiful behave badly. This captivating story of betrayal and denial will make you think long and hard about karma.” —Meredith Lavender and Kendall Shores, authors of Happy Wife “A smart, juicy tale . . . As bubbly and effervescent as a flute of chilled Dom Perignon.” —Morgan Richter, author of The Divide Praise for Katherine Wood “When we say we want a hot and sexy thriller, well, Katherine Wood absolutely delivered.” — Cosmopolitan “Wood has expertly mixed romance with mystery in a novel.” — Library Journal , starred review “Wood ingeniously orchestrates the plot to a series of powder-keg reveals.” —Publishers Weekly Katherine Wood is a native of Mississippi and a graduate of the University of Southern California. She is the author of the novel Ladykiller, and also writes under the pen name Katherine St. John. She lives in Atlanta with her husband, their two children, a naughty pug, and a ferocious kitty. Chapter 1 I'd said no. Of course I’d said no. I’d never wanted to see Tyson Dale again, much less spend his birthday with him at his compound in St. Barth’s. And yet here I was on the tarmac at Miami Executive Airport, his sleek jet looming above me in the noonday sun like a dog sent to fetch a toy for its master. It did not escape me that I was the toy. The driver had only just popped the trunk of the chauffeured Suburban that Tyson had dispatched to collect me from my house this morning when a uniformed attendant appeared and took possession of my roller bag. “Is this everything, Ms. Collet?” I’d been sure I’d grossly overpacked for what was to be only a five-­day trip, but his question made me wonder whether I should have brought more. Regardless, it was too late now. “That’s it. Thank you,” I said. Though I’d already hugged them goodbye, my ten-­year-­old boys bounded out of the SUV like a pair of puppies, salivating over the sight of the aircraft, and I suddenly understood why they had insisted on accompanying me to the airfield. “Can we go on it, Mom?” “Please?” “Pleeease, Mom?” they pleaded in unison. Their identical faces were like mine, sharp-­featured with a straight nose, though their lips were wide while mine were bow-­shaped, their eyes brown to my blue. They countered their indistinguishable appearance with opposite style, Benji the more clean-­cut of the two, his nearly black hair spiky and short, while Alex’s long, straight mop fell in his dark eyes, but their mannerisms mirrored each other’s, and they often spoke as one, as they did now. “Pleeease?” their voices chorused again. They’d shot up so much this year that I didn’t have to bend to look them in the eye as I placed a hand on each of their shoulders, shaking my head. “We talked about this.” But the pretty stewardess at the bottom of the airstair had different id