Was Jenna being deliberately obtuse? “How could he afford to stay at the Carlton? Do you know what it would cost? Almost six thousand dollars a month. And he’s a former soldier. How could he afford that?”
“Jesus,” Jenna whispered, wide-eyed. “You don’t know. You really don’t know.”
“Know what?” Jenna didn’t answer. “Jenna, you’re scaring me. Know what? What should I know?”
“I—I can’t talk.”
Caroline was getting scared. Jenna was looking stricken, as if she had knowledge that Jack Prescott was really Jack the Ripper but had taken an oath not to reveal it. “Jenna—you’ve got to talk. What’s wrong with him? What’s wrong with Jack? He’s living in my home, Jenna. I have to know if there’s something wrong.”
Jenna stared for a moment, face somber. Finally, she gave a little nod, as if coming to a secret decision. “Okay.” She swallowed and lay a hand over Caroline’s. “Okay, I’ll tell you, but you have to keep it a secret.” Her hand tightened. “You have to promise me.”
Wide-eyed, throat tight, Caroline nodded.
Jenna was leaning forward, watching Caroline’s eyes, looking so troubled that Caroline felt her heart clench.
“I’d lose my job if you let slip to anyone that I told you. Particularly him, Jack Prescott. It’s against every rule in the book, talking to you about a client. Are we clear on that?” Caroline nodded. “Okay—here it is. I have no idea why Jack Prescott wants to rent a room from you if he’s never met you before. And if you think he’s just a simple soldier, think again. He doesn’t need to rent a room with you. He could buy the Carlton, the Victoria and Greenbriars and never feel the pinch.” She put her hand over Caroline’s. “He came in this morning, opened an account and rented a safe-deposit box.” She stopped.
“And?” Caroline prodded. “That’s not a crime. He wants to settle down here, he’s going to be needing a bank account.”
“Yes, he sure will. Honey…” Jenna said softly, a small frown between her black eyebrows, “he deposited over eight million dollars in my bank today.”
Thirteen
Deaver parked about a mile away and walked to Caroline Lake’s home. He’d studied the satellite photos and maps carefully, and made his way mainly through back streets and service alleys.
He needn’t have bothered, really. The weather was so bad there wasn’t anyone around. Those who worked had already left, and the others were at home, sheltered from the icy sleet. It was a residential neighborhood and under normal circumstances at any given moment you could count on someone walking the dog or going for a jog, but not in this weather.
It made his job easy. So easy, he was even able to go in through the front door.
The front door lock was a joke, and once he got through it, he could understand why. Though the house was big, there was very little furniture, no artwork on the walls, no fancy home-entertainment systems or stereos, very little silver and no expensive knickknacks. Basically, there wasn’t anything to steal.
Except, of course, for $20 million in diamonds.
Deaver went through the house carefully, room by room, making sure he put everything back the way it was. It went fast because the rooms were fairly empty. He saw no sign that anyone other than a woman lived there until he hit the upstairs master bedroom.
There was a big black duffel bag and a suitcase on the bedroom floor with men’s clothes, size huge. Bingo. So Jack had made it to the pretty lady and into her pants pronto.
Good going, ace, he thought. You’ve just made my job easier. Get the woman, get a gun to her head and Jack was going to sing. Oh, yes.
Deaver went through Jack’s bag very thoroughly. No weapons and no diamonds. That meant that Prescott was carrying, and he’d hidden the diamonds somewhere.
Deaver stood, blood pounding in his ears, fists clenched. He was so close, so goddamned close! He banged his fist on the dresser, then ran his hand over his short-cropped hair.
He had ten thousand dollars left, and if he didn’t get his diamonds back, how the fuck was he supposed to live?
It was entirely possible that Jack had hidden the diamonds somewhere in the house, but Jack was a thorough man. If he’d hidden them somewhere here, Deaver would have to tear the house apart. It would take time, and Prescott might come in while he was searching. And in any case, Prescott would know someone was after him.
Deaver thought it through. Would Prescott leave a fucking fortune in diamonds in this woman’s house? Yeah, so sure, he was banging her, but he hadn’t seen her in years. How could he know she wouldn’t make off with them? And how could he know the house well enough to find a good place to stash them?
No, it wouldn’t make sense for him to keep them here. So he’d stashed them somewhere else, somewhere only he could have access to, like a safe-deposit box in a bank or a warehouse rental unit.
Smart boy, Deaver thought. But not smart enough.
He let himself out quietly and got back into his rental Tahoe.
Time to check out Caroline Lake.
The bad thing about not having any customers is that it gives one way too much time to think.
Caroline walked around in a daze after Jenna left, absently straightening books and dusting shelves.
Finding out a man you were dating—or whatever it was they were doing—was rich wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. Especially when he was filthy rich, as Jack apparently was. Eight million dollars. She could hardly get her mind around the thought. And she found it impossible to square it with Jack Prescott.
Rich men were vain, they liked the good life, they somehow felt they were blessed and better than others. Like Sanders, for example. Caroline tried to imagine Sanders dressed in tattered jeans, ancient boots, a denim jacket in the dead of winter.
Impossible.
Rich men hired other people to do their scut work for them. Caroline could hardly imagine a rich man wrestling with her boiler, making all the repairs that Jack had made, shoveling her drive. A rich man would have automatically picked up the phone and hired someone to shovel snow instead of taking a couple of hours to do a dirty, exhausting job.
She tried to imagine Sanders shoveling snow and snorted. Caroline entertained herself with an image of Sanders, in his Calvin Klein winterwear and cashmere-lined gloves, shoveling snow, ruining his manicure. The image was so enticing she actually smiled at Sanders as he walked into the bookshop, thinking him a figment of her imagination.
He clasped his glove-clad hands together and beamed when he saw her smile. “Caroline, my dear, how good to see you!” He clasped her shoulders and bent down to kiss her. She averted her face at the last minute, and he bussed her cheek instead of her mouth.
Oh my God, it was Sanders—in the flesh!
The last time she’d seen him had been for a disastrous nightcap at Greenbriars after a very nice dinner in October. The dinner had been so nice, and she’d been so grateful for the respite, that she’d asked him in for a whiskey only to have him behave badly toward Toby.
“What are you doing here?” she asked bluntly.
He took off his jacket and gloves leisurely, looking around the bookshop. Caroline had no idea what he thought of First Page. Sanders liked sleek and modern, which First Page certainly was not. He turned and focused his gaze on her. “I thought I’d stop by and see you. I haven’t had a chance to offer my condolences for the death of your brother yet.”
Uh-huh. He’d obviously been amazingly busy the past two months not to be able to drop in or pick up the phone or pen a note.
But Caroline had been brought up by her parents to be polite. She often thought of it as a handicap.
“Thanks, Sanders.” She drummed up another smile for him. “That’s very thoughtful of you. I appreciate it.”
He nodded, clearly unable to process her ironic tone. He looked around again, then back at her, waiting.
Caroline suppressed a sigh. She couldn’t even plead that she was busy. The shop was deserted, as was the street outsid
e. It was entirely possible that the whole city was deserted, everyone in it just staying home.
“Do please sit down, Sanders. Can I make you a cup of tea?” Maybe he’d been passing by and wanted something warm. Maybe if she offered him tea, he’d leave. Caroline didn’t think he’d stopped by for a book. In all the years she’d known him, she’d never known him to read a book. He read reviews, so he could sound knowledgeable, but he’d never read the actual book, that she could tell.
He gave her an alarmingly warm smile and placed his hand over hers. “I’d love a cup of tea, thanks.”
Thank God for her little secondhand microwave oven in the office. In three minutes, she was back with two mugs of vanilla tea, berating herself for her unkindness.
It wasn’t Sanders’s fault he was an ass. And his visit did break the monotony of an endless afternoon in her empty shop, waiting for Jack to come pick her up. And it did distract her from endless speculation about Jack’s money and where it came from.
So she leaned forward with genuine warmth to hand him the cup and was startled when he grabbed her other hand and kissed it. He held it for a long moment between his hands.
“Uh, Sanders?”
“Yes, darling?” He smiled at her.
“I need my hand back, so I can drink my tea. Please.”
“Of course.” He released her hand and sat back, sipping, completely at ease. “So…how was your Christmas?”
Don’t blush, Caroline told herself furiously and managed by dint of sheer willpower to keep her color down. Oh God, she couldn’t possibly tell Sanders what her Christmas had been like. Even if she wanted to confide in him—which she most certainly did not—she had no idea if Jack wanted to trumpet their affair, or whatever it was they were having, from the rooftops. Telling Sanders was the equivalent of taking out an ad in the local newspaper.
What could she say? If she said she’d been with someone, he’d immediately want to know who. And she was an atrocious liar. What could she say that wasn’t a lie but didn’t convey the truth?
“It was…quiet,” she said finally.
He nodded, as if that was the answer he expected. “I didn’t call because I thought you might want to be alone over the holidays. I know that Christmases have always been hard for you. But you know, Caroline, the grieving process must come to an end. You’re still a young woman, and now Toby—well, Toby has gone on to a better place, and you can start thinking of yourself. There are stages to grieving, you know…”
Caroline zoned out. It was a speech she’d heard thousands of times before from Sanders.
He was sitting directly under the overhead lamp, turning his perfectly styled hair a pure gold. He was definitely a handsome man, and he definitely knew it. Caroline watched him as he gave his little sermon, listening to one word out of ten.
The light also reflected off the top of his head. She peered a little, carefully disguising her interest. Was that his scalp she was seeing through the blond strands? Yes, that was definitely skin, not hair at his temples. His receding temples. Was Sanders going bald?
He wouldn’t like that. Caroline imagined that he was using every expensive hair-care product on earth and that eventually, if he trod the tragic path of male-pattern baldness, he’d have a transplant. Jenna was absolutely certain that he’d already had a little nip and tuck around the eyes, but however carefully Caroline looked, she couldn’t see any signs. But then, what would she know? She wasn’t exactly an expert.
“—what do you say? I think it would be fantastic, and I think it would cheer you up. I just know you’d have a wonderful time.”
He’d come to the end of his little spiel, and she hadn’t even listened. Oh hell, he’d said something that required an answer. Yes was definitely out, if she didn’t know what she was agreeing to. And no—well Sanders wasn’t too big on no’s.
She patted his hand and lied. “I’m so sorry, Sanders. I was listening for a deliveryman who is supposed to bring me the new weekly arrivals. He’s new, so he doesn’t know how to park out back. I thought I heard his van outside, but it wasn’t him after all. However, I’m afraid I missed what you were saying. Would you mind repeating?”
His blond eyebrows drew together in annoyance and he gave a little sigh. “I said, I have tickets to La Traviata next Saturday in Seattle. Box seats. So I thought we might just make a weekend of it. I’ll clear my calendar Friday afternoon and you can close up early. I’ve booked us a room at the Fairmont Olympic. I know you love that hotel, and it’s been years since you’ve been there, right? We’ll just relax and have a good time. Be together. Then on Sunday, there are some people I’d like you to meet.” He put his hand over hers. “Be just like old times, eh?”
Caroline just stared at him. This was beyond alarming. He’d gone ahead and started up another round of their relationship without her! Except she had no intention of following along. She had bigger and better things to do.
“Sanders—you’ve already booked the room? That’s crazy! I can’t go to Seattle with you next weekend.”
His head reared back in surprise at her reaction. “But I’ve got the tickets! They were almost impossible to find. Caroline, read my lips. La Traviata. And the Fairmont. How can you say no?”
This was going way too far, even for him. “Sanders, do you mean to tell me that you bought expensive tickets to the opera and booked a room at the Fairmont and you didn’t think to ask me if I wanted to go?”
Sanders looked absolutely blank. “Well, why wouldn’t you want to go? I mean it’s not as if—” It’s not as if you have anything better to do.
The words hung there in the room. Sanders’s mouth had snapped shut, which was a good thing because if he said one more word, she was going to smack him.
Well, enough was enough. Caroline stood and, startled, Sanders stood, too. “I’m sorry I can’t accept your invitation, Sanders.” Not that it had been an invitation. It had been more like a summons. “But I’m afraid I’m busy next weekend.” And the weekend after that, and the weekend after that. “And next time you want to invite a woman out, you might want to ask her first before making all the arrangements. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
“Wait! Caroline, wait.” He grabbed her by her upper arms. She looked at her arms and then up at him. “I’m sorry if that came out all wrong. Listen, I think we need to get our relationship back on an even footing. And I thought that a romantic getaway for a weekend would be a fabulous way to do that. Don’t you think so?” He smiled down at her, his usual charming smile that wasn’t working at all. “Come on, you know you’ve been having a hard time. I want to treat you to some luxury living. You know we’re meant to be together.”
Caroline tried to wrench herself away, but his grip was strong. He worked out a lot at the gym. “Sanders, I hate to break this to you, but we have no relationship. If anything, you’ve got a relationship with that brunette I saw you with last week.” Considering he’d had his hand up her skirt and his tongue down her throat. Caroline had seen them outside a trendy Italian eatery, Patrizio’s, as she was driving home after a late night in the shop shelving new books.
“Oh-ho.” His face cleared. “You’re jealous. That’s it. Oh, sweetheart, I promise you, you have nothing to be jealous about. That woman doesn’t mean anything to me. You’re the one I care for. Always have. Always will. Now’s our time, Caroline. Finally.”
To her horror, he pulled her close and kissed her. It wasn’t a first-date kiss either. They’d been to bed together so he presumed he had the right to go for full-frontal, tongue-in-mouth kissing.
Caroline tried to pull away, but he was holding the back of her head, hard, his fingers twisted in her hair. He was hurting her. Clutching her so tightly to him, it felt like her ribs were cracking. And—horribly—he was grinding against her and she could feel the beginnings of an erection against her mound.
That galvanized her. She did not want to feel his penis against her. Ack. She started pushing against him in earnest, trying to tell h
im to cut it out, but his mouth absorbed her words. She ended up making mewling sounds of protest, beating her fists against his chest.
He rubbed even harder against her, and she felt him surge into a full erection. God, this was awful! His eyes were closed, as if this were a romantic moment between two lovers, and not an act of force.
His tongue moved in her mouth like a warm wet slug, and it sickened her. She struggled harder, trying to kick him, managing mostly to bruise her toes. His hand tightened in her hair, pulling at it so hard it brought tears to her eyes.
Ouch! You’re hurting me! The words were there, in her throat, but she couldn’t say them, she could only make horrified noises. She finally landed a kick, but it only made him hold her head more tightly to him. He was in a frenzy now, his teeth clashing against hers as he changed the kiss to delve more deeply into her mouth, hips rubbing against hers. Horrible noises were coming out of his throat, and she could feel his penis swell even further.
He bit her lip, drawing blood. She could taste her blood, and so could he. His penis rippled with arousal, and he groaned as he ground himself against her. Her blood excited him.
Oh God, this had never even occurred to her. The couple of times they’d made love, it had been perfectly bland. Pleasant but not overly so. Totally unmemorable.
But right now, it looked like Sanders had a cruel streak she had never suspected. He got off on pain. He was definitely turned on by the taste of her blood and her pain.
She was fighting in earnest now, kicking, screaming into his mouth, trying to punch him, though it was almost impossible while he was holding her so close to him.
She was shaking with rage, trying vainly to free herself when all of a sudden she was free, staggering to catch her balance, staring.
Jack was holding Sanders’s arm wrenched behind his back, so hard Sanders was on the balls of his feet, wheezing with pain.
He was white-faced, blond strands of hair falling over his forehead, eyes unfocused, a little stripe of blood at the corner of his mouth. Her blood.
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