Was it really any wonder that he never went to visit?
He pushed all thoughts away, keeping his eyes closed, effectively ending his conversation with George. "Wake me when we get to Farmingdale."
Alessandra was frantic. Twenty-four hours had passed since Michael Trotta's ultimatum. That left only twenty-four more to go. Her time was half up, and she was no closer to finding the money than she'd been when she started.
She'd slept only a few hours last night. She hadn't meant to sleep at all. But fatigue had overcome her while sorting through several boxes of Griffin's papers that had been hidden in the garage, searching for something, anything that might be a clue. She'd woken up in a panic, dreaming of an attack dog leaping at her, razor-sharp teeth going for her face.
She'd gone out to the twenty-four-hour Dunkin' Donuts and bought five large cups of coffee, cursing herself soundly for falling asleep. She had only forty-eight hours, total, and every minute counted.
By mid-morning the workers were back, replacing the rest of her broken windows. By mid-afternoon, Alessandra had finished the last of her coffee, long stone cold.
Her turquoise dress was streaked with dirt and dust as she stood in the room that had been Griffin's office and slowly turned in a circle. She'd torn up the carpeting and found nothing. She'd searched and removed all that was left of the furniture and books.
She'd brought the pickax in from the garage, prepared to tear open the walls if necessary. But it seemed so improbable. If Griffin had hidden something in the walls, she would have known about it. Wouldn't she?
She sat down on the floor, slumping with fatigue, trying desperately to think.
Michael Trotta had said that Griffin stole the money last year. Last April. She tried to think back, tried to remember what they'd been doing, tried to think of something that would set that particular time apart from all of the endless, similar, blurred months of her marriage.
They'd gone on vacation, spent a week in Cozumel, Mexico. God, if Griffin had spent the money gambling or even hidden it down there…
Alessandra forced herself not to think of disaster scenarios. April. April. Spring. Spring would have been in full bloom. Flowers and…
She sat up.
Griffin. Out in the backyard. Working with a shovel and a rake. Planting that azalea.
She'd come home early from another of the endless baby showers she'd received invitations to as Griffin's wife. She'd left before dessert was served, before the presents were opened, feigning illness. In truth, she couldn't take it. She couldn't bear the sight of even one more disgustingly adorable tiny pink or blue outfit, she couldn't stand to listen to one more endless conversation about breast-feeding.
She'd been surprised to see Griffin home in the middle of the day—almost as surprised as she was to see him actually doing yard work. They paid an enormous amount for a landscaper to come in once a week and maintain the grounds. Griffin had allergies—and an aversion to getting his hands dirty, too.
Yet there he was, out in the back, planting that azalea. The same azalea he'd made a point to ask for in the divorce settlement. The azalea he was supposed to pick up this month, as soon as the ground thawed enough to dig it free. The azalea she'd set on fire just two nights ago.
With a burst of renewed energy, Alessandra pulled herself to her feet and went out to the garage, searching for a shovel.
"Where's Emily?"
Shaun looked up from his book, shading his eyes to see his aunt in the glaring sunlight. Her words didn't make sense, because Emily was right in front of him. She was building a sand castle down at the edge of the water. She was…
Gone.
Her red bucket lay on its side next to a small mound of sand, but Emily was gone.
Shit.
Shaun stood up, his heart pounding. The Pacific Ocean was calm today, but even calm, the waves were strong enough to knock over a four-year-old—even one as tough as Em.
Marge was already purposely striding toward a man and a woman on a blanket nearby, and Shaun could hear her clear voice asking if they'd seen which way the little girl had gone.
Em's bathing suit was a bright, cheery yellow that made her hair and eyes seem an even darker shade of brown. Shaun scanned the waves but saw no flash of color. Shading his eyes again, he gazed down the beach, spinning first one way and then the next. And there, through the mist rising off the water, he could see it.
A very small spark of yellow, way, way down the beach, heading north toward Carmel.
He dropped his book and ran.
Heart pounding, legs and stomach churning, he prayed that yellow spot was Emily, not some empty sand pail or lost beach towel. He was supposed to have been watching her. He was responsible for her safety. How could he have let this happen? What if she'd gotten too close to the punishing force of the ocean, been knocked over and drowned? What if she was already dead?
It happened. He knew it happened. People died. People he loved could go into the city, or down to the beach, or even just around the corner and they might never come back. He'd learned that the hard way.
But Emily…
He wasn't sure he could live if Emily was dead.
And, God, how would he ever face his father?
His stomach hurt, but he kept running, his eyes fixed on the bit of yellow. It was growing larger, growing a head with stringy dark hair, two arms, two legs.
It was Emily.
She was crouching in the sand, poking at a shell as he skidded to a stop. Thank God. Relief flooded through him, turning instantly to a cramping wave of nausea. He dropped to his knees and threw up, right there, in the sand.
A trio of high school girls hurried past him, giggling and making noises of disgust, and the mortification nearly made him throw up again.
One of them turned back to him. A pretty one, with long red hair tied back into a ponytail. Her eyes were blue and wide. "Are you all right?"
Shaun wiped at the tears that had flooded his eyes. Perfect. He was crying. Could this get any worse? He checked with one hand to make sure his bathing suit hadn't slipped down to expose his bare butt as he swept sand over his former breakfast with the other.
"You should slow down and walk it off after doing sprints," she told him. "Particularly in this heat."
God, he'd managed to puke on his glasses. He was looking at the prettiest girl in the world through dots of vomit. What a complete and total loser. He took them off and wiped them on the bottom edge of his shorts, and the world became fuzzy. Safer. Emily was a yellow blob, and the girl was like something one of those dead French guys painted. Still nice to look at, but hazy, undefined.
"You were running really fast." She laughed. Her laughter was like magic. "I was watching you for a while."
She had been watching him? Shaun put his glasses back on. She was wearing a black two-piece bathing suit that clung to a perfect body that screamed to be watched. She was probably around sixteen, a couple years older than he was. A couple years older than the girls in his eighth grade class at school, and unlike many of them, she had sixteen-year-old breasts. She had very, very nice breasts. Oh, God. Shaun felt himself blush a deeper shade of red.
"I'm a runner, too," she told him. "I've almost lost my lunch more than a few times when it gets hot like this, so I know exactly how you're feeling. Are you sure you're all right?"
Shaun opened his mouth and squeaked. Oh, God. He cleared his throat and started again. "I'm okay," he said, his voice managing not to break. "I just… I was…"
"You know, sometimes when marathon runners have intestinal distress, they just go to the bathroom in their shorts," she told him. "They just keep running."
"You've got to be kidding."
She laughed. "It's true. At least you had the decency to stop."
Emily had seen him and had come to stand nearby, her eyes wide as she stared at the girl.
He gave the girl a weak smile. "I'm sorry I grossed out your friends."
"They're babies. You know,
you should run in the morning, around seven-thirty or eight, before it gets too hot. That's when I run." The red-haired girl smiled back at him. "Maybe I'll see you around, huh?"
She turned, breaking into an easy trot to catch up with her friends.
What just happened here? He blows chunks, and the prettiest girl on the beach starts to flirt with him?
"Do you got the throw-up flu?" Emily asked as he crawled toward the surf and rinsed his face in the salt water.
"No," he said tersely. "I puked because…"
She didn't have a clue. Em was standing there, frowning slightly, concerned because he'd gotten sick, but other than that, she didn't have the slightest idea that she'd been the cause of his distress.
"Where were you going?" he asked her far more gently than he would have had the red-haired girl not stopped. "You know you're supposed to stay where you can see me on the beach, or Marge won't let us come down here alone."
Em gazed at him calmly, still without a speck of remorse in her eyes. "I was following Daddy."
Shaun froze. "What?"
"I saw Daddy, and I followed him, but he goed too fast for me to catch him."
The elation that had come with the pretty redhead's smile wore off, leaving complete exhaustion in its place. "Em, you know Dad's not in California. He lives in—"
"Washin'ton, D.C.," she recited. " 'Tecting the president from bad guys." She sat down next to him in the sand. "But we're on vacation, maybe Daddy's on vacation, too."
Shaun put his arm around her. She was sturdy but so small. "Daddy doesn't take vacations," he told her gently. "His job's too important, remember?"
Em nodded, content with that explanation. "The president needs him."
"Yeah," Shaun said, wishing he was still young enough to believe the stories he'd started making up two years ago. He hugged his sister more tightly. "Next time you wander off, you're gonna be in big trouble, you got that?"
Emily nodded. "Shaun?"
"Yeah, Em."
"What does Daddy look like?"
Shaun closed his eyes. "Like you, Em, remember? Just like you, only a whole lot bigger."
"What the…?"
Harry stopped short as he went around the side of the house, and George had to tap-dance to keep from crashing into him.
Alessandra Lamont hadn't seen them yet.
George opened his mouth to complain again, but Harry shook his head, holding one finger up to his lips and then pointing at Alessandra.
She was digging in the garden. Her hair had fallen almost completely loose from an elegant knot at the back of her head. Her face and arms were streaked with dirt.
She was working hard, digging around the roots of the skeleton of a bush. Only three or four branches remained, covered with soot, blackened fingers reaching pathetically toward the sky. It was weird, as if that bush, and only that bush, had been completely consumed by a miniature forest fire.
But that wasn't the odd part. It made sense she'd want to remove the dead plant. It was ugly, and she was trying to sell her house. And it made sense she'd be covered with dirt. Harry knew a little about gardening, knew that people could get dirty when the richness of the earth mixed with the sweat of hard work.
But the odd part was that Mrs. Griffin Lamont was doing her gardening while wearing a dress more appropriate for a cocktail party.
"That's an Armani," George murmured. At Harry's blank look, he explained. "A designer dress. Probably cost upward of seven hundred fifty bucks. What is she doing?"
"Searching for buried treasure?"
As Harry watched, Alessandra stood up. Her legs were long and slender, very nicely shaped despite the streaks of dirt running from her knees down her shins. She hooked one ridiculous-looking high-heeled shoe on top of the shovel and, using her body weight, dug in. The muscles in her arms and legs strained, and her dress tightened across her rear end.
"It would kind of be a shame to offer to help," George said quietly.
Harry nodded, perfectly content just to watch for a while—to see exactly what it was she was digging up.
But she spotted them and dropped the shovel, spraying herself with dirt.
"Lord!" she said. "You scared me!"
"Sorry." Up closer, she was even dirtier. She had cobwebs in her hair and an angry-looking scrape on her shoulder. Her dress was ripped, too. It had pockets on the front, and one of them looked as if it had caught on something and torn partly free. It had ripped right through the dress, leaving a little triangular-shaped hole through which he could see her underpants. Her bright red underpants. God. "Whatcha up to today, Mrs. Lamont?"
She made an attempt to push several loose strands of hair behind her ear—as if that would improve her disheveled appearance. Her hands were shaking. Caffeine jitters, Harry guessed. Hell, if he were her, given a too-short deadline by Michael Trotta, he'd keep himself wired with coffee, too.
She seemed exhausted. And terrified. Her blue eyes looked bruised, her mascara smeared, most of her other makeup long since worn off. She looked like complete hell, yet somehow even more attractive than she had two nights ago when they'd first met. She looked more like a real woman and less like a posable Barbie doll. And Harry found himself wanting to help her.
"Look," he said quietly. "We know what's going on. We know about the missing money. We know Michael Trotta's threatened to kill you if you don't give it back."
She turned away, all but putting her hands over her ears to block his words. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"I can help you," he told her. "Mrs. Lamont—Alessandra—look at me." He took her arm and looked into her eyes. "I can help you."
He saw her uncertainty, saw her waver, and for a moment, he actually thought he had a chance. But then she pulled away, and he knew he'd lost her.
He kept going anyway. "It's in your best interest for us to take you into protective custody. It's the only way we can guarantee your safety."
It was also currently their best route to catching Trotta, but no one was going to tell Alessandra that. Harry felt a twinge of guilt, which he ruthlessly stomped down. "From there we can get you into the Witness Protection Program. You’ll be given a new name, a new identity, a new life. In return, you'll testify against—"
"I didn't ask you to come here today. Do you have a warrant to be here?"
She was scared to death. Beneath her heavy ice-princess attitude, she was nearly shaking with fear. Harry looked closer, eyes narrowing.
"Is that blood on you?" he asked. "Just beneath your ear?"
It was dried, but it was definitely blood. He felt a rush of anger, a wave of disgust.
She reached up, as if to rub it away, or maybe to cover it from his view. "My shoulder," she said lamely. "I scratched myself and…"
"What did they do?" He couldn't keep his hatred of Trotta and everyone connected to organized crime from ringing in his voice.
"I don't know what you're talking about." She didn't sound so convincing this time. Harry had to put his hands in his pockets to keep from reaching for her. What was it about this woman?
"They gave you a sneak preview of what was going to happen to you, and told you not to go to the police," Harry guessed. She tried to pretend she didn't know what he meant, but he could tell he was right. "Alessandra, please, don't you understand that by listening to them, you're doing exactly what they hope you'll do? You stand no chance of winning on your own."
"I've heard Trotta's planning to use you as an example," George added. "He will kill you, and he'll make it hurt."
They weren't getting through to her. She straightened her narrow shoulders and lifted her chin. "This is private property. Please remove yourselves from my yard. You're welcome, of course, to stand out at the curb for as long as you like."
Frustration made him grit his teeth, but Harry knew when it was time to beat a retreat. He also knew that he wouldn't win any points by laughing aloud at her haughtiness. He took out his card and held it out to Alessandra Lamont instead
. "Call if you change your mind."
She didn't take the card, didn't move. She just stood there, shaking slightly, but otherwise firm in her belief that her way was the only way.
Harry dropped his card and it fluttered to her feet. "In case you decide you want some help," he added.
"I won't," she told him.
"That's too bad. Because if you don't, you're probably going to die," he told her tightly, and walked away.
When Alessandra got home from the mall, the money was gone. She'd found it, all of it, exactly where she'd expected—buried in a locked metal box underneath Griffin's double-damned azalea.
She'd called the number on the card Michael Trotta had given her, and Ivo's frighteningly familiar voice answered the phone. He'd told her to wait for him—he'd be right over to pick up the money. But she'd left it on the dining-room table and gone out. If she never saw Ivo again, it would be too soon. And she didn't doubt his ability to get through a locked door.
Besides, she'd had to go to the mall. Right after she found the money, she'd gotten a call from a Mrs. Wong in the foster-care division of Social Services. She wanted to know if Alessandra would consider providing foster care for baby Jane Doe.
Just like that, her luck was changing. A meeting was set up for tomorrow morning.
It was the kind of meeting to which she couldn't wear her floor-length Christmas skirt. She needed to look good. She needed to look capable.
Alessandra went into the bathroom and filled the tub with warm water. She'd allowed herself no more than a quick shower after she'd found the money. But now that it was over, she deserved a long, leisurely soak, a chance to gather herself before the morning's meeting.
She left her blouse and the black velvet skirt she'd worn to the mall on the bed in the room she'd been sleeping in since Griffin moved out. The plastic bags with the purchases she'd charged to her last usable credit card were on the floor. New underwear from the sale table at Victoria's Secret. A plain yet fashionable skirt in a neutral beige, also on sale. A white sweater. A pair of spring-weight wool pants.
Body Guard Page 5