Captivated

by Carla Neggers

  "Interested?" he asked.

  "Perhaps."

  "You heard J.B. dropped a necklace in a poker game with me, didn't you? St. Charles ended up with it. Don't pretend you don't know, Sher, because everyone in town knows J.B. tells you everything."

  She frowned and caught the wide worried eyes of Lucy on her. Poor Luce. How had she stood all these years of life with the two Weavers? "Quit beating around the bush, Vinnie. What do you want?"

  "The necklace."

  "What makes you think I can help you?"

  Vinnie laughed, a thin, nasal, nasty sound that rattled Sheridan's composure. "I know you, pretty lady. I've played poker with you, remember? You can help—we both know it."

  "I don't have the necklace."

  "St. Charles still has it, then. Fine, it doesn't matter to me as long as you can get it."

  "Mr. D'Amours," Sheridan said coldly, "I have no intention of doing anything of the sort—"

  "That's where you're wrong, pretty lady. I got a great way to persuade you: J.B. Weaver."

  She gripped the phone, her knuckles turning white, and instantly Lucy was on her feet. "Go on," Sheridan said hoarsely.

  "A couple of my boys found him nosing around. I figured you might trade him for the necklace."

  "That's kidnapping, Vinnie."

  "It's survival, Sher. Call me when you can meet my terms. This doesn't have to be unfriendly. Your father for a paste necklace? Come on."

  "Dammit, I don't have the necklace!"

  Vinnie remained infuriatingly cool. "Then get it." He hung up.

  Lucy took a deep breath. "Sher?"

  "It was Vinnie…" She raised her eyes and met the other woman's anxious knowing gaze. "He's got J.B., Lucy."

  10

  It was all Sheridan could do to keep Lucy from chasing after Vincent D'Amours herself, but she managed to get the ample secretary to unroll her sleeves and calm down. "If anyone calls," Sheridan told her, "I'll need you here." J.B. will, she added silently.

  "Are you calling the police?"

  "I don't know. Vinnie didn't make any explicit threats…"

  Lucy humphed. "J.B. sure as hell isn't staying there of his own free will!"

  "I know."

  She went into J.B.'s office and sat at her old desk, trying to put all the pieces together. There had never been any doubt that Vinnie wasn't a nice man, but would he go so far as to kill J.B. over a five-hundred-dollar necklace? Why would he even risk a kidnapping charge? How could she even be sure Vinnie wasn't bluffing, that he did have J.B.?

  What does the necklace mean?

  "First things first." She grabbed her bag, dug out her three-by-five note cards and looked up the number to St. Charles Enterprises.

  First she wanted to talk to Richard. Not because he had the necklace, but because she loved him and wanted him with her.

  The crisp professional voice of a receptionist answered. "I'm sorry," the woman said, "but Mr. St. Charles is unavailable."

  "I'm sure he'll talk to me—it's an emergency. My name's Sheridan Weaver."

  "You don't understand, Ms Weaver. Mr. St. Charles is not in the office today."

  "You mean he's not there yet?"

  "We don't expect him today at all, Ms Weaver. May I leave a message for when he does come in?"

  "No." Remembering it wasn't the receptionist's fault that her boss was a snake in the grass, Sheridan managed to thank her before hanging up.

  Unavailable! Not expected today!

  So much for trust, honor and consideration. A man like that, a woman like her—it was impossible. They were both too stubborn and independent. They'd fight all the time.

  "And never tire of each other," she murmured to herself.

  Unless Richard was in cahoots with D'Amours, after all, which would be tiresome, indeed. She shook off the thought at once. Not only did she not in her heart believe such a scurrilous thing, it wasn't logical. If Richard and Vinnie were in this together, Vinnie wouldn't need to kidnap J.B. to force Sheridan into getting the I necklace for him.

  Grabbing the phone, she punched out Swifty Michaels's number. "Swifty? It's Sheridan. Have you heard from J.B?"

  "No."

  "What do you mean no? I thought you were helping him out."

  "He changed his mind."

  There was something in Swifty's tone that Sheridan had never heard before and didn't like. He, too, was worried. "Did he say he'd be in touch?"

  "Friday noon, same as when he said he'd see you."

  "Then he did go after Vinnie alone? Damn."

  "Sher… what is it?"

  "J.B. Weaver is a stubborn man, Swifty, but this time that trait could hurt him. Swifty, Vinnie's got pop."

  J.B.'s longtime and stalwart friend took a moment to digest this news before asking succinctly, "What're you going to do, Sher?"

  The burden, she thought, was on her shoulders. At worst she felt like a businesswoman with an MBA and twelve kinds of vinegar. At best she felt like a rusty P.I. She spoke slowly, choosing her words carefully. "I'm going to call George Davis," she said and swallowed. "Then I'm going over to Vinnie's. I want to talk to him, see for myself… I have to do something, Swifty."

  "How about St. Charles?"

  Her heart lurched, then sank. "If you hear from him, tell him—tell him I don't like liars."

  "Sher?"

  She could hear the concern in Swifty's voice. "I'm okay, Swifty," she said, feeling the tears spring to her eyes. Hell, I am okay. I have to be! "I'll get J.B. out of this mess. I've done it before."

  "If you need me—"

  "I've got your number."

  Instead of calling Davis herself, Sheridan had Lucy do the deed. Davis would try to talk her out of going to Vinnie herself. But she'd been in this position before. She knew what to do, what J.B. expected of her, she hoped. "Tell him I'm on the case, and I'll call him later."

  "But—"

  "And if St. Charles calls, tell him lunch is off."

  Sheridan swung her bag over her shoulder and stalked off, feeling more than ever like the Sheridan Weaver of old: competent, confident, daring… and alone.

  She remembered the way to Vincent D'Amours's estate. It was located in Marin County, the house itself constructed well up into a steep hill. It was all glass and wood, spectacular, with a dramatic view of the bay. But Sheridan had never liked D'Amours, and she figured one benefit of a major earthquake would be to send Vinnie's little castle crashing into the bay.

  Still, she didn't think he was a murderer. He wouldn't be pushed into killing J.B. He was a cautious man—a paranoid or a realist, Sheridan wasn't sure which—and had made his grounds as impenetrable as modern technology could. There were the ordinary safeguards: ten-foot spiked wrought-iron fences, security men, a guard at the main gate, Dobermans prowling the property. In addition, Vinnie had installed a computerized security system that he bragged about at poker games.

  J.B. had always said that, if pressed, he could get inside D'Amours's estate without so much as a Doberman blinking an eye. Sheridan had never doubted him.

  Until now.

  Sliding her car onto the shoulder of the road ten yards from the main gate, she had to consider that J.B. had tried… and failed. Somehow D'Amours had found out what J.B. had been up to; now her father was his old nemesis's prisoner.

  There was no other word for it: prisoner.

  She shuddered, turned off the engine and climbed out of the car. If she could talk to Vinnie, appeal to his reason, his gambler's honor… something. But surely J.B. had tried all that. Too much was happening too fast: her father had been captured by what he would simplistically call "the bad guys"; her lover had lied to her; and she was back in the messy, dangerous, exciting world she had rejected. She was trusting instinct and rusty skills. Or operating on them, at least.

  Sheridan slammed the door shut; as she expected, a voice rang out, "Hey!" The two men she had encountered at the yacht club ran toward her and, when they recognized her, stopped abruptly, just out
of striking distance. They drew their guns.

  "For heaven's sake," she said, "put those things down. I want to talk to Vinnie. There's no reason we have to resort to violence."

  The blonde waved his gun. "Out."

  They were pre-verbal, she decided. She spoke slowly. "I want to talk to the boss."

  The dark one waved his gun. "Out."

  "We're not making any progress. Vinnie expects me to call him—"

  "Then call."

  This was from the blonde—two whole words together. "Amazing," she said. "I'd prefer to talk to him here."

  "No talking," the blonde said.

  "Out," the dark one said.

  "You'll tell Vinnie I stopped by?" She regarded them with her best supercilious look. "Me Sheridan Weaver." They just stared at her, guns pointed. She shrugged and pulled open the car door. "Oh, and tell J.B. I'm on the case, okay? You're feeding him good, I hope. He's allergic to peanut butter."

  They started toward her, but she hopped in the car, turned the key and was off. Obviously she wasn't going to get to talk to Vinnie, and she wasn't one to flog a dead horse. As she did a U-turn in front of them, she smiled and waved.

  If she'd brought her gun, she could have shot them both, stormed the estate and rescued J.B. Or, more likely, gotten them both killed. Black belt or not, Sheridan preferred an approach with far more subtlety and finesse.

  "If only I could think of one," she muttered, cruising back down to Sausalito.

  She drove past the yacht club, gripping the steering wheel hard as image after image of Richard and last night battered her mind, her senses, her emotions, like so many waves washing over an empty, isolated beach. Even if she tried, she couldn't shut him out. Yes, clearly he had lied to her. But surely he deserved the chance to explain. Walking out of his life now wouldn't be fair to either of them. If he was a liar and a cheat, if last night had been nothing to him but a physical release, then better to have that out now, to open herself up to deeper but cleaner wounds.

  Reminding herself that she wasn't the type to run away from a problem, Sheridan parked between a Jaguar and a Mercedes and ran all the way down to the dock, where she grabbed a tanned blond college kid who worked at the club. "Hey, slow down," he said, grinning. "Take it easy…"

  She caught her breath. "I need a ride out to Richard St. Charles's yacht. He's expecting me." If he's there, she added silently.

  "Okay, will do. A party brewing out there or something?"

  Sheridan looked confused. "Not that I know of. Why?"

  They got into the small launch. "Saw a boat come up a little while ago—there, it's still there."

  Bobbing in the water alongside Richard's yacht was a small speedboat. It was empty. Sheridan could feel her defensive instincts grind into gear, but she didn't pale or tremble. She merely grew very, very wary. "Did you see who was in it?" she asked.

  "A couple of guys, maybe three."

  "Is Richard on board?"

  " 'Course. We would've done something otherwise."

  "Then he welcomed them? They appeared friendly?"

  "Yeah, sure."

  If they had had guns held close to their chests, their backs turned to the club, an indifferent party on shore wouldn't necessarily have noticed if they had forced their way on board.

  "Something wrong?" the boy asked.

  "I don't know, but I didn't think Richard was expecting guests other than me."

  "I can go out, check around, if you want. Hey, relax, I won't let anything happen to you. The name's Peter, by the way."

  Sheridan decided to indulge him. "Thank you, Peter."

  Unless she was wearing her judogi, the special pants and jacket used for martial arts practice, and her black belt, people tended to underestimate her ability to defend herself. Often that worked to her advantage. But: if these were more of D'Amours's men, there was a good chance they already knew all about one Sheridan Weaver. Having a young healthy ally couldn't hurt. If something had happened to Richard—

  No. She wouldn't think that way. She couldn't.

  The launch sputtered to a stop alongside the yacht, behind the speedboat, but Peter left the engine idling while Sheridan climbed to her feet.

  For the second time that day she cursed herself for not having packed a gun. She hated guns, though J.B. had insisted she learn how to use one. Not everyone, he claimed, was impressed by flailing arms and legs; in their business a gun was a must. J.B. and Sheridan both considered violence of any sort a last resort, even a sign that they'd made a mistake somewhere along the way.

  Just then three men leaped into the speedboat, all armed, none Richard. Peter swore under his breath and sat down quickly, ready to make his exit—and Sheridan's for her. She clapped a hand on his shoulder. "No, wait!"

  He looked around at her, panicked. "But they have guns!"

  "Yes, but—Oh, God."

  The speedboat roared to a start, but Sheridan paid no attention. They were hired muscle; there wasn't a thing she could do even if she could catch them, which she knew she couldn't. She had always had a good sense of her limitations. Nevertheless, with J.B. a captive, she might have tried something—some trick, some ruse, she didn't know.

  The sight of Richard changed all that. He was leaning over the side of the yacht, and blood was pouring down his face.

  "Richard!" she yelled.

  He waved a hand. "I'm okay."

  "I'm going aboard," she told Peter, her voice a hoarse whisper. "You can go on. There's… there's no need to call the police. I'll—"

  "Fine, fine, no police. Hey, I'm easy."

  And afraid, Sheridan thought, but this was no time to try to explain. As soon as she was on the yacht, Peter swung the launch around and took off. Sheridan hoped he was afraid enough not to call the police, simply because she didn't want to take the time to answer their questions.

  She raced to Richard and grabbed hold of his upper arm, steadying him. He had an ugly gash on his forehead, along his hairline above his right ear. From experience Sheridan knew he had been pistol-whipped. Under the circumstances she was relieved.

  "Thank God you're all right," she managed, gasping for air as the tension and fear of the past few moments was released. Her stomach burned. She needed a glass of warm milk, her father to be safe… Richard.

  His black eyes focused on her. "I do not feel all right, thank you. Where the hell have you been?"

  "I could ask you the same. Here, let me have a look—"

  With a glare he pushed her hand aside and stumbled over to a deck chair, which he plopped into before glaring at her some more. And swore. And dabbed at his cut with a muted-blue sleeve. Sheridan pulled up a chair and sat next to him. He needed to cool down. She understood the pain and humiliation of having a handful of arrogant, mindless goons beat him over the head. What she didn't understand was why his wrath had to be directed at her. After all, she should be angry! "Why didn't you go after them?" he demanded. "Wonder Woman I'm not. Richard, you need some ice for that cut. It'll start to feel better in a few minutes, and—" She stopped herself from delivering another platitude. "If it's any comfort, I know how you feel."

  He shifted abruptly. "No, dammit, you don't know how I feel! You don't know what it is to care for someone, do you? No, better yet, you don't know what it is to have someone care for you."

  She scowled at him, both in confusion and disgust. Bloodied or not, he had no right to be yelling at her. "I'm not the one who hit you. Look, why don't I get some ice. Maybe it'll improve your mood."

  "Sheridan." The low, rough voice kept her in her seat. "Where the hell have you been? I expected you to be here. You weren't."

  "As you say, fair play's turnabout. I expected you to be at your office. You weren't."

  He stared at her. "What?"

  "I called St. Charles Enterprises, and you weren't there."

  "No, I wasn't. I—" His eyes narrowed, intent and alert, almost as if the bloody wound wasn't there to plague him. "Why did you call?"

  "Fi
rst tell me why those men were here."

  "They were looking for the necklace. They said they had you."

  Sheridan was confused. "Had me? What do you mean?"

  "Had you. Kidnapped, captured, stuffed in a trunk, strung up by your toes—had you." He swore, dabbing at his cut with the back of his hand.

  "And you believed them?" She scoffed. "Really, Richard."

  He moved too suddenly—probably, she thought, going for her throat—and swore with vehemence at the pain that resulted. "Woman, you weren't here!" That was as vociferous as Richard St. Charles ever got. "You said you'd meet me on the yacht, and when there was no sign of you, I— Dammit, what the hell was I supposed to believe?"

  Good point, she thought, pensively rubbing the tip of her thumb along her lip. "Interesting," she mused. "Interesting."

  "What the hell is so damned interesting about thinking the woman you love has been carted off by a bunch of goons?"

  The woman you love. She looked at him, feeling warm and confident and not alone. "Richard, this is all getting complicated. I'm sorry you were worried about me, but there were mitigating circumstances that I'll go into in a moment First tell me what happened here. Please."

  He sat back, calmer now, the blood coagulating around his gash, and considered her request. "All right. From the beginning. I came by about twenty or thirty minutes ago." His voice was low and steady. "When I didn't find you here, I called Lucille and my house in the city—needless to say, without success."

  Leave it to Lucy not to give out any details.

  "I wasn't worried," he went on. "I assumed you'd gotten restless and had gone off on some lark of your own and would return in due time. I settled down to wait. Then company arrived."

  "The three men."

  "Yes. They came aboard with guns drawn and demanded the necklace. I decided to feign both innocence and ignorance, which didn't work."

  "Not easily believed where you're concerned," Sheridan put in dryly.

  "I told them I didn't keep track of worthless fakes and hadn't the slightest idea where it was."