"So tomorrow someone from the Witness Protection Program will arrive," she said to George. "Will you and Mr. O'Dell go home at that time?"
Mr. O'Dell. Jesus. "We won't leave you until you're set up in your new town, and we know you're safe. And call me Harry," he said. "Mr. O'Dell gives me a rash."
"You call me Mrs. Lamont," she countered.
Damn, she was right. He took a deep breath. "Okay," he said. "You call me Harry, I'll call you… Allie."
She looked pained. "My name is Alessandra."
"Not anymore it's not. Consider Allie a temporary stop between your old and your new name—whatever it's gonna be."
"Who actually gets to decide that?" she asked.
George finished the last of his 7UP. "Probably some computer somewhere."
"How long will it be before I'm actually allowed to start living my life again?" she asked.
Harry looked at George. This was a tricky question. If this were a normal Witness Protection Program deal, they would say good-bye to her tomorrow. They'd pass her off, put her in someone else's capable hands. But this wasn't normal. They were using her as bait, to lure Trotta into a trap. Because of that, he and George were going to be beside Alessandra, 24/7, for a week or two. Maybe even longer. Certainly as long as it took for Trotta to take the bait and attempt a hit.
There was that twinge of guilt again. God, he had to get over it. Yes, they were using Alessandra as bait. Yes, that was a shitty thing to do. It was unfortunate, but necessary. Why couldn't he accept that and move on?
George cleared his throat. "That really depends," he said. "It'll probably be at least a week, maybe more."
"That long?" Alessandra's gaze flicked in Harry's direction, and he knew what she was thinking.
He didn't like it, either. He forced a smile. "Just until we know you're safe," he said. "We're pretty thorough. And you know, after awhile, you won't even know we're around." He reached for his soda, but his fingers fumbled and the can slipped free, spilling the cold liquid directly on his crotch. "Shit!" he shouted, grabbing the can and then a pile of napkins to mop himself off. His pants were soaked. It looked as if he'd wet himself. Or worse. "Fucking unbelievable!"
He looked up, directly into Alessandra's cool blue eyes.
"I beg your pardon," he said, feeling the cold of his cola saturate his boxer shorts.
She looked at George, as if choosing to pretend Harry didn't exist. "When do you get to go home and spend time with your families? How do your wives feel about you spending the night here—in my hotel room?"
"I'm divorced. And we didn't have kids, so…" George shrugged. "And Harry—"
"I don't have a family either," he interrupted. "Not anymore."
Alessandra turned to look at him. "But George said you had kids."
Harry stood up, wishing he had a clean pair of pants to change into, wishing he'd brought his bag with his jeans, wishing he were anywhere but here. "George needs to work on his compulsive lying."
"Harry's got a son and a daughter," George told her.
"If you're here with me all day and all night, when do you get a chance to see them?" Alessandra asked.
His pants were cold and sticky—never a good combination, even on the best of days. And this one was definitely out of the running for the best. "Never," he said flatly, heading for the bathroom. "I try to see them as close to never as possible. Maybe that way they'll live to see their sixteenth birthdays."
"I don't understand." Alessandra looked to George for an explanation as Harry closed the bathroom door behind him.
"Harry had another son," he told her quietly. "Kevin. He was killed two years ago when—"
Alessandra jumped as the bathroom door swung open and hit the side of the tub with a crash.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Harry came back out of the bathroom with a towel and a dangerous light in his eyes. Luckily for her, his death glare was aimed at George.
George shrugged, unperturbed. "I thought—"
"Don't!" Harry shouted at him. "Don't talk about me as if I'm not here. And don't talk about me when I'm not here. Just keep it the fuck to yourself."
Alessandra felt responsible. "I asked, and he was just—"
He turned toward her. "I'm not sure why George seems to think it's important you know that my son Kevin was virtually decapitated when the car he was riding in slid underneath a truck. What do you say George? Were you also going to tell her that the crash that killed my kid and my ex was the result of the mob trying to scare me off a case? The bullets were supposed to be fired only in warning, but someone screwed up and a truck driver was hit. He lost control of his rig, and Sonya and Kevin didn't stand a chance."
Alessandra closed her eyes, dizzy from lack of sleep, dizzy from the harshness of Harry's words. Dear Lord.
"But hey, you know, if Allie here needs to know that, maybe she should know all my deeply personal and private shit, too." Harry's voice was softer now but no less intense. "Like the fact that I haven't had sex since 1996.I really think she better know that. Or how about sometimes the only way I can fall asleep at night is to stay awake for seventy-two hours and then collapse. Oh, I know. This is a good one, Al, you're going to like this: I was too much of a coward to face my surviving son and daughter and tell them that both Kevin and their mother were never coming home again. And let's not forget how I still can't look my kids in the eye, so I just never go home. Does that give you the fucking insight you needed to psychoanalyze me?"
Alessandra couldn't look at him, couldn't move. He'd lost a child. She couldn't begin to imagine his pain.
He slammed back into the bathroom, locking the door behind him.
George cleared his throat and gave her a weak smile. "I think we'll let Harry go out to get dessert."
Chapter Six
Alessandra sat in the darkened bedroom of the hotel suite. The small amount of grilled chicken she'd managed to choke down an hour ago now made her stomach churn ominously as she stared at the telephone.
The glowing red numbers of the clock beside the phone calmly changed from 2:13 to 2:14. Despite the fact that she was nauseous from fatigue and more than ready to sink into bed and sleep until morning, it wasn't the middle of the night. It was only mid-afternoon.
It was smack in the middle of the workday.
In fact, Michael Trotta was probably back from lunch, probably in his office right this very minute.
Just a phone call away.
The grilled chicken made a slow circle in its unending dance of horror, and she reached out to touch the phone with one finger.
She didn't want to be here. She didn't want to spend another minute playing this frightening game. She wanted to call a time out and find the road that led back to her real life. She wanted to push her way behind the curtains and remove herself from this alternative reality in which she'd found herself trapped.
She wanted to pick up that phone and call Michael Trotta. She wanted the destruction of her cars and her house to be a giant mistake. She wanted to find out that some not-too-bright thug named Lenny or Frank or Vince had misheard Trotta's instructions and set those bombs.
She wanted her life back.
She'd prefer the evil she knew over this horribly frightening uncertainty.
She didn't want to live in Ohio. She wanted to stay here, where maybe someday she'd have a prayer of a chance of adopting Jane.
She couldn't give up hope. It was close to hopeless, she knew, but she couldn't give up.
She wouldn't.
Alessandra glanced at the door to the main room of the suite. It was open a crack and dim light streamed in. She'd wanted to close it, but Harry had told her not to. Even when she showered, even when she used the facilities, she was supposed to leave the door unlocked.
Welcome to privacy hell.
When Harry had informed her of the open-door rule, she'd glanced up and for the briefest of moments their eyes had met and locked. His were probably the darkest, blackest shade of brown she'
d ever seen, filled with a weariness that seemed at least a million years old, permanently shadowed from the loss of a child and the death of a woman he probably still loved. Her heart had twisted, imagining the open rawness of his pain, and in that instant, time had seemed to twist and turn, too. For the slightest fraction of seconds, for a segment of time too small to measure, she was back inside her house, just out of the bath, flames and smoke around her, Harry's rock-solid body pressed against hers, his callused hands warm against her still-damp skin.
His touch had felt sinfully good.
She stood up abruptly, banishing that memory to the farthest reaches of her mind. She didn't want to feel anything for Harry O'Dell, particularly not this odd compassion. Compassion and… lust? No, she was tired. She was still in shock. He'd lost a child and she felt sorry for him. That was all this was. Compassion. Period.
Lord, she hated this. She didn't want to be here.
And one phone call—just one—could clear up this entire misunderstanding.
She picked up the phone.
"Calling anyone I know?"
Alessandra jumped, and the phone handset rattled in its cradle.
Harry pushed the door open even farther and stepped into the room. His face was harsh and grim, his eyes as cold and devoid of life as the farthest reaches of outer space.
"I was just…" She didn't know what to say. He knew exactly what she was just about to do.
He stared at her, nearly boring an ice-encrusted hole into her with his zero-degree gaze, waiting for her to continue.
And she could only think about the way he'd looked at her before, the heat in his eyes, the way he'd touched her.
Alessandra knew she looked good. Not great, but passably good. George had made a quick run to the drugstore and had picked up a number of things from her list, including some cheap makeup. She'd put it on immediately and had instantly felt a little bit better. A little bit more in control.
She shifted back very slightly on the bed, pulling her legs out from beneath her. She moved just a little bit so that the stream of light from the open door fell on her carefully made-up face, on the shining gold of her hair, on the deep V-neck of the pajamas she wore, giving him a flash of skin, a clear shot of her delicately boned ankles, a hint of gracefully shaped legs.
It was a calculated movement, a subtle invitation to look, meant to distract and befuddle. A nonverbal change of subject.
And although Harry did look, his gaze lingered insolently on her breasts before he practically scraped his way down her legs. He wasn't at all distracted. And certainly not befuddled.
"Did you try this on Michael Trotta?" he murmured, his gaze intimately tracing the curve of her hips and thighs before moving back to meet her eyes.
Alessandra pulled her knees in to her chest, holding them tightly, instantly embarrassed. This was her fault. She'd done it automatically. All her life she'd used her looks as a bargaining chip. But she should have known not to play with fire. It was all she could do not to burst into tears. "I don't know what—"
"Yes," he said. "You do. You know damn well what you look like. You didn't want to admit to me that you were thinking about calling Trotta, so you figured you'd change the subject by giving me a hard-on. Well, guess what, Al. Didn't work."
Alessandra felt a flare of anger at the crassness of his words. "You really are—" She stopped herself.
"What?"
She turned away. "No. I refuse to be dragged down to your level."
"A fucking bastard. That's what you want to say, isn't it?"
Alessandra stood up and began pulling the covers back from the pillow. "You said it, I didn't."
He sat on the end of the bed before she could pull the bedspread all the way off. "I really am curious, though. What was Trotta's response?"
She tugged at the spread. "Excuse me. I'm very tired and—"
"He could buy and sell you." Harry didn't move. "In a way, he already has. Think about it. He pays a price—and not even a particularly high price for a guy with as much money as he has—and someone snuffs out your life."
She gave up on that bed and moved to the other one.
"Oh, but wait," Harry said, feigning a sudden realization. "You don't think he's really put out a contract on you. That's why you were going to call him, right? You think two car bombs in your garage is the result of some kind of clerical error."
She stiffly kept her back to him as she turned down the sheets of the second bed.
"So, tell me, Allie," he continued. "What were you planning to say to him when you got him on the line?" He did a poor imitation of a female voice. " 'Please, Mikey, tell me it's all been just a big mistake.' And what do you think he's gonna say to you when you say that? I'll give you a few extra seconds to think that one over—I don't want you to strain yourself."
Alessandra turned to face him, letting herself hate him. "I'd like you to get out of here."
He moved then, but it was only to sit in another position, his back against the headboard, his legs stretched out comfortably on the bed. "He's gonna say, 'Why, of course, Mrs. Lamont.' " This time he did a rather chillingly accurate imitation of Trotta's dulcet tones. " 'It is indeed a mistake, Mrs. Lamont. Please come into my office, Mrs. Lamont, and I'll take care of everything.' "
"Maybe he will say that. I gave back the money."
Harry laughed, arranging the pillows more comfortably behind him. "Oh, yeah. He'll say it. But you know what happens next? You know how he'll 'take care of everything'? You can go in there and flash him the goods all you want, sweetheart. You can even go further, put your mouth where your money is, so to speak. Yeah, I'm betting Michael Trotta won't have any problem at all with you giving him a blow job before he kills you."
She flinched. "You're disgusting."
"The truth is disgusting. Don't confuse the messenger with the message."
Alessandra pulled herself up to her full height and gazed at him with as much haughtiness as she could muster. "Please. I'm exhausted."
Harry smiled. "The ice bitch thing doesn't work with me either, Al."
"Stop calling me that."
"What? Ice bitch or Al?"
She held herself tightly to keep from shaking. She wasn't sure if what she felt was anger or fear or just sheer desperation. All she knew for certain was that the thought of losing her identity scared her to death, and that she missed baby Jane so much she ached. "My name is Alessandra."
"Not for long." Harry stood up in one smooth motion. "Here's the deal, Allie." His voice was harsh. "I know you don't believe your dear friend Michael really wanted to blow you into a million little pieces, but if you so much as dial his phone number, you'll be out on the street, on your ass, faster than you can spit. Because if you call Trotta, he'll know exactly where you are within minutes. And then not only will you be dead, but George and I will also probably die attempting to protect you.
"If you really have a death wish, I can get you a T-shirt with a great big target on it, and you can wear it as you walk out of this hotel. It'll be a short walk, though. You'll only get a few blocks before you're spotted and taken down."
She didn't believe him. She couldn't believe him. And he knew that just from looking at her.
He picked up the phone and with one swift, effortless yank pulled the wire right out of the wall. "Maybe this will reduce the temptation, huh?"
"Are you intending to lock me up in here, too?" Her voice shook.
"You're free to leave whenever you want. My advice, though, would be to get your personal effects in order first." Harry turned toward the door but then turned back. "Oh, and Al? If you get in touch with Trotta, either by calling on the other hotel line or any other way, and he finds out where you are, you're toast. Even if his hitmen somehow manage to miss you, you'll be dead. Believe it. Because I'll shoot you myself."
"Hello?" Kim's breathless voice sounded impossibly young and innocent. Nicole had never sounded that young. Not even when she'd first come up from the Academy.
"Hi, babe. It's me—George."
"Who?"
He had to laugh. "Jeez, it's been that memorable, huh? George. Remember? George Faulkner?"
"Omigod, George! I'm sorry, I couldn't hear you. It's noisy in here and… God, of course I remember. Where have you been? Wait a minute, let me move to another phone."
There was a thud then only bar sounds—loud music, laughter. Then a click and Kim's voice was back. "Hang up, Carol." Louder. "I said, hang up." Then deafeningly, shrilly, "I said, hang the motherfucking phone up! Now!"
The bar sounds disappeared and Kim was back, as sweet and breathlessly innocent as ever. "Baby, I'm so glad you called. I was starting to think you'd forgotten about me. Where have you been for the past three days? Can I see you tonight?"
Cold and hot. Psycho and sweet. Kim was an actor—George knew that. He was something of an actor himself.
"I'm on assignment," he told her. "I can't get free. Not tonight, anyway."
"Where are you now? If you can come over here right this minute…" Her voice trailed off, leaving George's imagination to fill in the blank.
He was too tall for the so-called privacy shields built around the pay phone to make any kind of difference. Still, he ducked awkwardly closer to the phone, wishing he could crawl through the line, wishing he could steal half an hour. He had a very good imagination. "I thought the club had a rule about what goes on in your dressing room."
"Are you in town?" Her voice was even more breathless now. Whispery, intimate. "Because if you are, I'd like to show you just what I think about the rules when it comes to me and you."
George sighed. "I'm here—for the moment anyway, but I can't get away," he told her. "I'm breaking every rule in the book just calling you."
"I don't suppose you can tell me what you're doing."
"Not a chance."
"Not even if I beg and make all kinds of promises?"
The images that called up were heart-stopping. Kim could do things with her lips and tongue that could win her a place in the Guinness Book of World Records. "Nope."
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