by Lisa Jackson
Hide it under a bushel?
No!
I’m gonna let it shine . . .
Soundlessly, the Marksman mouthed the familiar words, the lilting, deeply ingrained tune sifting through his brain as he stared through the sight of his rifle. Everything was going perfectly, unfolding just as he’d been informed it would happen.
Well, other than the dead guy.
That was a wrinkle he hadn’t foreseen.
He didn’t bother glancing at the corpse again. Would deal with it later. Right now, he had to concentrate.
Through the sight, he saw that the two cars had stopped, were idling about twenty yards apart and facing each other. His lips twisted as he recognized the woman, all curves and shimmery dress and ridiculously high heels. She was already out of her classic Cadillac, the door open, its interior light casting a weak glow.
He zeroed in on her and forced his heartbeat to slow. He had to remain calm. Steady.
He adjusted his sight just a hair. Watching, he saw her bend over the back seat and withdraw a bulky infant carrier, and it appeared heavy, with a kid inside. Then she rounded the big car and opened the opposite door, only to withdraw another carrier. It too looked heavy.
Deftly, she kicked the door closed.
Far in the distance, over the sound of a lonesome coyote’s cry, he heard the high-pitched whine of a motorcycle’s engine. The driver was winding the bike through its gears. From the corner of his eye, the Marksman thought he saw a trail of dust at the far end of the valley. No way. And yet, the glimmer of a single headlamp boring into the twilight caught his attention.
No.
Not now.
Don’t let it get to you. It’s just some cycle junkie out on a joyride. It has nothing to do with the job.
But the rider could be a witness.
Just like the dead man.
He stole one last glance at the unwitting stranger he’d had to kill.
Concentrate.
Deal with the situation when it becomes a problem.
Sweat began to bead over his brow, and he let out a slow breath of air.
A low moan rolled on the slight breeze, and the hairs on the back of his neck raised. Again, he glanced over at the dead man. Unmoving. Silent. The guy hadn’t been breathing five seconds ago. And he’d been shot through the heart. Or damned close to. He was dead. Had to be.
Still, the Marksman’s skin prickled as the sound, low and guttural, whispered over the dry soil again, but the body didn’t move.
A ghost?
Someone else hiding in the shadowy landscape?
He swallowed back fear and stared at the cacti and scrub and rocks jutting out of the desert floor, but he saw no movement in the coming night. With renewed effort, he forced his gaze back to the drama unfolding in the valley below.
A bead of sweat slithered down from his hairline and along his jaw, but he ignored it. He couldn’t, wouldn’t break concentration.
The driver’s side door of the Mustang flew open, and the driver, a tall man carrying what looked like a briefcase, sprang from the interior. Leaving the door open, the interior light dim but steady, he strode toward the approaching female.
Here we go.
His finger was ready on the trigger.
Not yet.
Wait.
The exchange has to happen first. Remember. And do not hit the kid.
Steady . . . steady.
Let it shine, let it shine, let it shine . . .
CHAPTER 4
This is such bullshit!
Glock tucked into the back of his pants, Brett hauled his briefcase out of the car and wondered why he’d agreed to meet her like this. The middle of the desert at dusk. God, it was all so Didi. He should have just talked to his attorneys and let them handle whatever arrangements were necessary and legal.
But then, he wouldn’t have been able to get back at her, would he? No. This sounded like the best solution, a plan to get a little of his own back. He only hoped he could pull it off. And he’d end up with his son. If everything went as planned. He could lie with the best of them, when called to, and this situation certainly warranted evading, or even reinventing, the truth. But he never liked it. Always felt uncomfortable. Not so his father. Nor his brother. God, if Brett only had the balls and swagger of his older sibling, the ability to lie easily and so convincingly through his teeth, maybe he wouldn’t have ended up in this mess. Oliver Hedges Jr., who called himself OH2, was ruthless, even cruel when he needed to be. As the old man had been before his accident. The particular quality of sheer will to do whatever it took, and Brett lacked it. Nor had he ever cultivated his brother’s cutting-edge, take-charge, and “damn the consequences” persona.
It just wasn’t who he was.
Hence, his current untenable situation.
Caught in Didi Storm’s seductive trap.
His fingers clenched around the handle of his briefcase.
There might have been a slim chance Didi wouldn’t have seen through his fake identity when they’d first met. But no, she’d apparently known who he was, and their whole meeting, which he’d thought had been his idea, was really hers.
But what was done was done.
He just had to fix it.
And he would.
Right now.
He rounded the front end of the car and stepped into the bath of light cast by the Mustang’s beams. The night was closing in, the sky dark aside from a line of illumination throwing the jagged mountains into relief, the air dry and still warm, the sound of his footsteps muffled by the layer of dust. And there she was. Didi Storm in all her glory. He stared at the woman he’d so lusted after. Damn, but she was still beautiful. Sauntering toward him, taking her time, wearing outrageous heels and a short, short skirt, she was still sexy as hell, and she knew it. Lips shimmering in a knowing smile, she hauled two baby carriers toward him.
Two?
What was this?
A back-up car seat? Or . . . ?
Holy Christ.
Could there really be two infants?
Twins?
His stomach clenched.
Were they his? Hers?
She’d sent the DNA profile. One. Not two. A son.
But right now, there were definitely two babies; he heard them both crying. Stereo. Good Lord.
What kind of nutcase was she, deep down? Bargaining with her own child . . . or possibly children? He stopped walking in front of his car. Let her come to him.
This could all be a show. Remember who you’re dealing with.
“Brandon,” she said in that breathy Marilyn Monroe voice that he’d once found sexy. Now it sounded fake. Anxious. Well, good. “Oh, wait. That’s not right, is it? You weren’t Brandon at all,” she said. “That was just your alias, the one you used when you tried to pick up innocent girls.”
He set his jaw, felt the Glock pressing into this back, and noticed the tension in the air. The desert at night. Where some people came to find inner peace under a vast star-flung sky.
“You weren’t exactly innocent,” he reminded her. “You set me up.”
“Tit for tat, I guess.”
“What is this, Didi?” he asked as she neared. He motioned from one of her hands to the other. “Two kids?”
“Mmm. Yeah. Turned out that way.” Her cat-who-swallowed-the-canary smile made him want to strangle her. “Guess I forgot to mention that. Twins. A girl and a boy.”
“You’re kidding.” But he could tell she was dead serious.
Shaking her head, she kept her gaze locked with his. “Two babies, and they’re both yours.”
“How would I know that?”
“DNA doesn’t lie.” She was so damned sure of herself. So smug. He wanted to strangle her.
“You could have mentioned it.”
“And ruin the surprise?” She chuckled softly, but it was a nervous laugh, and for the first time, he sensed a deeper disturbance in the night. Something more was going on here, he could feel it, smell it
in the dust of the desert, hear it in whispering thump of bats’ wings overhead. The warning hairs on the back of his neck stood erect, and it was all he could do not to reach for the pistol pressing into his back.
Didi’s gaze slid to the briefcase clutched in his hand.
Of course.
“It’s here,” he said and stopped short. To prove his good intentions, he slid the locks, and the case opened. Stacks of tens and twenties were strapped into each side. “Two hundred and fifty grand.”
She swung the carriers around, to show the faces of the tiny babies. They were red from crying, and the two infants were probably scared. “Which one?” she asked, and despite her determined exterior, she seemed to waver a bit, her eyes actually shimmering with tears.
“What?”
“Which kid do you want?” Her voice actually cracked as she pointed from one carrier to the next. “Adam or Ariel?”
* * *
No, no, no!
Whatever Didi was doing out here was wrong, so damned wrong. And she had to be stopped. Remmi was sure of that. It’s up to you. No one else is out here. Frantically, she stared through the slit in the back seat and the windshield to the space in the desert between the two cars where her mother and some guy were squaring off. The baby carriers were now on the ground between them, an open briefcase near the man’s feet.
For the love of God, it looked like an exchange of some kind.
Didi was trading her babies? To their father? No, no . . . that couldn’t be right, Remmi thought frantically. She wouldn’t be . . . selling her own children. But what then?
Hadn’t Didi said recently that things were going to get better? When pressed, she’d been cryptic and only laughed to say, “We’re about to win the lottery, honey,” and Remmi had chalked it all up to her mother’s fantasies about the damned tickets she’d purchased every week for as long as Remmi could remember.
But this . . .
No, she wouldn’t. Couldn’t.
Then what?
Frantically, she pressed the release to the back seat. Nothing happened. She tried again, her hand slick with sweat. Again a no go. “Come on, come on,” she gritted, clawing at the damned release as she realized that without a special key, she couldn’t get out. When the doors to the Caddy locked, so did the secret compartment. Fresh panic washed over her. Somehow, she had to stop this . . .
But she was trapped.
* * *
“You want me to choose?” Brett said, staring at the twin carriers. The girl, dressed in pink, was sniffling, as Didi had carefully leaned down and placed a pacifier in her tiny mouth, while the boy, in blue, had stopped crying on his own and was watching his mother and blinking. “That’s crazy.”
“You’re paying for one,” she said, straightening.
“I thought there was only one.”
“Your mistake. If you want the second one, it’ll be another two-fifty.”
“You greedy bitch. You’re certifiable.”
“Am I?”
“You can’t sell your own kids.”
“Sure I can. You’re their damned father. You can . . . you can think of me as a surrogate, okay?”
“That’s not how I think of you.”
“Doesn’t matter,” she said, though she flinched a little. Then she was all business again. “So, who do you want? Adam?” She pointed to the infant in his blue blankets. “Or Ariel?” Her manicured finger moved to the baby swathed in pink and lavender. “Your choice.”
“I’m not making a . . .” He let his voice trail off. She had him over a barrel. They both knew it. A muscle in his jaw worked, and he wondered what would happen if he just took both kids. Would she call the cops? Claim kidnapping? Then what about the money?
“Or I can make the decision if it’s too hard for you.”
“The boy, then,” he cut in, and she nodded as if she’d expected the answer. “You said I had a son.”
“And I wasn’t lying.”
“But you didn’t mention the girl.”
“We were talking about one child, okay? But if you want Ariel, you . . . you can have her.” Didi swallowed hard, as if her words were choking her. “But you’ll have to pay another quarter mil.” She tilted her head to the side and waited, chin lifted defiantly, platinum hair glistening in the headlights.
“This is insane!”
“Probably. But here we are. And now you have a son. Just like your old man wants.”
His head snapped up. She knew that?
Her smile was cold as death. “That’s right. I know all about you, Brett, and your family. You’ve got what you wanted, and so do I, so let’s just call it good.”
Damn, he wanted to throttle her, but maybe that could come later. In a split second, he remembered her naked body—so hot, trembling with need, so moist. All a setup?
Didn’t matter. Not now. He passed over the briefcase, and she examined it, unbuckling both straps and eyeing the bundles of cash, mentally counting and confirming that each stack was complete.
“It’s all there.”
Her eyes narrowed, and she warned, “You better not have cheated me.”
He snorted, thinking of the scam she’d pulled.
Her lips knotted, and she dropped the opened packs of money back into the case, then cast one longing look at her son before picking up the carrier with the delicate pastel blanket. “Let me know if you want Ariel,” she said, though it wasn’t with any enthusiasm. “Maybe we’ll be able to work things out.”
“Yeah, right.” Pissed, he grabbed the carrier with his son and turned back to the Mustang as she took his daughter, his damned daughter, back to the Caddy. He’ll never see the girl, he knows that. Didi won’t allow it. But she’s greedy and a spendthrift. She’ll blow through the cash he gave her and discover most of the bills are forged. Then she’ll be back and threatening to expose him, but she won’t have a leg to stand on as she will have to cop to selling her own baby.
Maybe they’ll be able to work something out.
When pigs fly.
At the open door of the Mustang, the same bad feeling of unseen eyes observing them, that something dark and evil was lurking in the shadows, was even more intense, and the hum of that motorcycle’s engine was getting louder. Closer. He saw it then, the bike’s headlamp bouncing over the uneven terrain about a quarter of a mile away.
Quickly, he strapped the carrier with his kid into the back seat.
How about that?
He had a son.
And a daughter you may never meet.
* * *
Didi’s heart twisted as she turned back to the Cadillac. It’s only for a little while. Remember that. You’ll have the baby back soon. Tears stung her eyes, though her back was ramrod straight, and she wouldn’t let that son of a bitch know how much she hurt inside, how her heart twisted at the thought that she was giving up one of her infants, if only for a few days.
What if something goes wrong?
“It won’t,” she whispered as she reached the Caddy and unlocked the door. “It can’t.” Expertly, she snapped the car seat into place.
But when he realizes he’s been duped . . .
Oh, sweet Jesus . . .
“It will be all right,” she said and, after tossing the briefcase onto the seat next to hers, slid into the interior, immediately pressing in the button of the cigarette lighter with fingers that shook. She couldn’t think of what she’d done, just about the future. Soon her plan would be complete. “Oh, God please,” she whispered. This was the best she could do. For herself. For her kids. She knew it. You didn’t get more than one shot at the big time, and since she’d failed when she’d landed in Hollywood all those years ago, this, the twins, was it. She started the car, then hit the gas. She didn’t want to give Brett the chance to discover he’d been tricked. Cranking on the wheel, she headed back the way she’d come and found the damned motorcycle in her path.
“Idiot!” she ground out, just as he blew past and did some kind of whee
lie thingie, riding the bike as it stood on its back wheel.
To think that Brett even considered taking the second kid. Oh, yeah, right. That would never fly, and besides, how could she explain it? Unfortunately, she was far from an A-list star, but she did have some kind of following, a few fans, and there had been rumors about her time off, that she might be knocked up. She’d managed to hide the fact that she’d borne twins but hadn’t been able to hide her pregnancy. Seneca and Remmi, the only people who knew she had given birth a second time, would both keep their mouths shut, so she was home free.
Almost.
She glanced at the briefcase she’d cast so casually onto the passenger seat. A quarter of a million dollars. Enough to change a girl’s life forever. The lighter clicked, and she found a cigarette, lit it, and inhaled deeply. “Oh, baby,” she whispered, imagining her life and how it was going to change.
For the better.
But just wait until Brett realized she’d conned him, pulled a switcheroo. The son of a bitch was going to hit the roof when he realized he didn’t have a son after all, that she’d dressed the twins in each other’s clothing: Adam became Ariel, and her daughter became her son. She’d thought Brett might check but figured he’d been too stunned to discover he’d fathered two kids, not one, to think about it.
“Serves you right,” she said, taking another long drag and feeling the nicotine swirl through her bloodstream.
This way, knowing he had a son, the DNA/paternity report being on a male, Brett would come back to the well. His old man would insist upon it, and then she’d really put the screws to him. No measly two hundred and fifty thousand, no way. This time she’d ask for a cool million. Surely an heir, a male heir, was worth that to that greedy chauvinistic old man.
In the rearview, she saw the Mustang begin to move.
Away from her.
“Good.”
She sped to the spot where the dirt tracks became gravel and slowed for a curve.
Crack!
A sharp report echoed over the valley.
And again.
Crraack!
What?
Gun shots? A car backfiring? What?
Her gaze flew to the mirror again, and then, after a pause, two more shots blasted in rapid succession and then—