by Amy Atwell
“Not exactly.”
“You mean you don’t have a pocketknife or something?”
“What do I look like, a Boy Scout?”
She snorted. “Hardly. A Boy Scout would be more trustworthy. He would have come better prepared.”
His eyes captured her. “Trustworthy? Prepared? Don’t kid yourself. A Boy Scout would have been practical enough not to come here alone. He would have waited for reinforcements. He would have kept you waiting.”
Her eyes welled again. “I have been waiting.”
“I came as fast as I could. As soon as I found out.” He scooched even closer, until she felt his warm breath on her bare thigh an inch below her skirt’s hem.
She watched him, wanted to touch him. Being tied left her at such a disadvantage. And yet, seeing Mickey in the same condition gave her this crazy sort of rush. This was exactly the sort of trap she was trying to avoid in life. There was something unknown, dangerous, thrilling about this encounter. She tried to remind herself her life could very well be at stake, but somehow, Mickey’s presence gave her much more hope than she’d had before.
And then her thigh tingled beneath his hot breath. A tug on the cords and a nip of his teeth followed. Her legs tensed as she gasped. “What are you doing?”
His stubbled jaw brushed her thigh, the sensation of scratchy heat sending jolts of desire up her spine. “Relax,” he whispered. “I’m trying to see if these cords are loose enough to free your legs.” He looked up at her, his eyes nearly black in the stripes of moonlight invading the dark room.
She gulped nervously. “What for?”
“So maybe you can get out of here.”
“Oh.” She felt oddly let down by his matter-of-fact answer. His teeth scraped against her thigh again as he tried to pull at the cords. Iris closed her eyes, blotting out her fears for the moment. Instead, she replaced them with wishes of a whole new kind—foolish, dreamy, not-in-this-lifetime kind of wishes.
Wishes that he would make love to her. Wishes that she could tangle her fingers in his dark hair and make this a very different encounter.
“Relax your thighs,” Mickey said. “Let me try this one more time.”
Iris nearly jumped out of the chair at the sensation of his hot, wet tongue sliding along her flesh and trying to work beneath the cord. She didn’t squeal, but her breathing became more labored.
Mickey squinted up at her. “Sorry, is this getting to you?” He bent his head and plucked at the cords with his teeth. But she was pretty sure she’d seen him smile.
“I don’t think this—” another gasp, “—is going to work.”
“Come on, give me a few minutes. We’re in a bedroom, it’s dark, we’re alone. Just pretend I’m making love to you.”
Iris held her breath. He hadn’t really said that. “Don’t joke about it, okay?”
“Who’s joking?” He lifted his face, his gaze roaming over her. “If this is my last night on this Earth, I sure as hell want to spend it with you.”
Trussed up as they were, Iris knew there was no way to fulfill either of their desires. And though she still didn’t believe him, she was grateful to pretend. “I want that, too, Mickey, but those guys could come in here any minute.”
“Forget those two. I could out-think them with my hands tied behind my back.” He grinned that careless, swashbuckling grin at her, almost making her believe him. “Now, where were we?” This time, his moist lips missed the cord entirely as he suckled her skin, teasing her flesh with his tongue.
Footfalls in the other room alerted Iris, and her whole body tensed, destroying the moment.
Mickey scooted away from her heated flesh. “Let me do the talking,” he whispered before Jock and Pebbles came through the door.
They stopped, silhouetted by the lights in the living room behind them, and Iris had to wonder if they did it for effect.
“I told you he’d be conscious by now,” Jock said as an aside to his partner.
“You want I should knock him out again?” asked Pebbles.
Jock waved the idea away as if it were a pesky gnat. “Nah, it’s time Mickey told us what’s really going on here. Maybe he and Miss Fortune here have got a plan.”
“I don’t even know why I’m tied up,” Mickey said.
“So you didn’t get those little gems you delivered this evening from her? Because they turned out to be first-class copies. Turner says the Boss is pissed.”
“Copies?” He turned wide eyes to Iris, and for a second he had her fooled that he hadn’t known they were copies. The liar.
“Where’d you get them made, Mick?” Jock pulled a gun from his waistband. “Turner wants to know.”
“I didn’t get them made. Who had time? Those are the stones I got from Cosmo.”
“Got ’em from a dead man, did you?”
A whole new level of numbness drained Iris’s body. Had these two thugs killed her father?
Pebbles nodded his bumpy bald head. “That’s true, Mickey. You told us yourself that you killed Cosmo and stuffed him in the trunk of your car.”
Iris drew a long, slow, silent breath between her teeth. She hoped it would keep her from fainting—or from screaming at that charming, scheming, lying killer. She’d personally make sure Mickey Kincaid paid for her father’s life with blood.
Mickey didn’t even glance her way as he explained himself to those guys. “I made Cosmo tell me where they were stashed. How was I supposed to know they were fake? You can’t pin this one on me.”
That weasel Jock laughed. “We don’t have to. Turner is coming over to find out where you disposed of Cosmo. And then I suspect he’s going to dump you and your pretty girlfriend right there with him.”
Pebbles tugged on his sleeve. “But I get to keep the bunny this time, right Jock?”
“Would you shut up about the goddamn bunny?” Jock shoved the giant out of his way so he could stalk toward them. He stuck the gun to Mickey’s temple.
Despite her anger, Iris squeezed her eyes shut and waited for the inevitable shot.
But Jock just laughed after a few seconds. “It’s been fun knowing you, Mickey, and Miss Fortune—well, I’m sorry we didn’t get a chance to know each other better.” He chucked her under the chin, making her eyes fly open.
If her mouth weren’t so dry, she would have spat at him.
“Come on, Pebbles. Turner will be here any time. Why don’t you go pick us up some dinner.” Jock stalked back to the living room.
The giant remained behind. “Does the bunny like lettuce, Mickey?”
Iris opened her mouth, but then bit back the caustic comment. After all, she’d seen this guy hit Mickey. She’d better not rile him.
“Sure. He loves lettuce. And carrots.” Mickey’s tone remained relaxed and sincere. “And the rabbit’s name is Edgar. If something happens to me, you’ll take good care of that little guy, right?”
“You bet, Mick.” Pebbles grinned and left the room.
Mickey shouted after them. “Hey, if you’re getting carryout, bring us back something.”
She had to hand it to him. Even with these appalling odds, he was absolutely brazen.
The bedroom door stood open, light streaming in to paint a large rectangle on the floor near her chair. Mickey’s legs were gilded in the incandescent light, while his upper body lay in shadow. She’d been counting on this man, and he was a complete mystery to her. If he’d killed Cosmo… Her heart went numb as she wrestled with the implications.
From the living room, Iris heard muffled voices then the apartment door opened and closed. One of them had left. The television clicked on, though she tuned it out except for the occasional bursts of a laugh track.
Cosmo’s dead. He can’t help you. Yeah, right, as if Cosmo had ever… She blinked away useless, too-late tears. The painful part was admitting that somehow she’d hoped he’d mend his ways. Now, she’d never see him again. Never get her answers to so many questions.
She had to get away. Releasing h
er breath, slowly, she twisted her shoulder to an angle impossible for most people. Fortunately, Cosmo had taught her one element of magic—the art of escape. Why the hell had she been sitting here this long waiting for someone else to rescue her?
“Iris.”
“Don’t talk to me.”
“I didn’t kill Cosmo.”
The sincerity with which he said it made her turn her head and contemplate him.
“God, do you think I could even face you if I’d—” He swallowed. “If I’d done that? He’s alive as far as I know.”
“You keep telling me that so I’ll help you. But come on, who am I supposed to believe? The man who carries a gun? Or those guys—”
“You’re going to believe Jock and Pebbles over me?”
“There’s Edgar, too. He said you held him and Cosmo at gunpoint.”
“Edga—” Mickey shook his head, as if to clear it. “You’re going to convict me on the testimony of two petty crooks and a rabbit? Jesus, I told those guys I offed Cosmo because I was trying to buy your father time. The only way I could keep Turner and his men from hunting Cosmo down was to make them all believe I’d already dealt with him.”
It was a logical story, but she’d heard too many lies from him. She’d gotten that one phone call from her security company that Cosmo had entered her store, but that had been before midnight Friday. Wait, Cory had seen Cosmo on Saturday afternoon—but that still left all of last night. Why wouldn’t Mickey have chased him down and tried again? Maybe that’s where he’d gotten that drawing of the crown.
“Is that why you needed a shower at my place this morning? To wash the rest of the blood off your hands?” She barely kept down the bile that rose in her throat.
“I didn’t kill him, Iris. Look, here’s the deal.” He met her gaze, his blue eyes twinkling in the shadows. “I’m just in this for the stones. I don’t owe Turner or his boss any loyalty, in fact, I was supposed to be in and out of this really quick. Only Cosmo beat me to the gems. So, naturally, I threatened him—but I never meant to harm him. And then he got away without telling me anything, and I haven’t seen him since.”
She’d steeled herself to renounce the lie, but this sounded plausible. But then, that was Mickey’s best defense—he made everything sound plausible. “So you never intended to find Cosmo and help him, did you?”
He swallowed. “It wasn’t at the top of my agenda, no.”
“And you’ve been lying to me all along.”
“Can you honestly say you haven’t lied to me—wait, what’s that?” He cocked his head.
Iris stilled until she heard the faint chirping. “It’s a cell phone.”
They both listened. Jock’s muffled voice drifted into the bedroom, until— “What?” burst from him. He appeared in the doorway, agitation rising off him like steam. “Mickey, you son of a bitch. Did you slash it?”
“Relax. The tire’s fine. It’s just flat.”
Iris looked from one to the other, unsure what they were talking about.
“I’ll be right down,” Jock said into the phone before he snapped it shut. “Now I’ve got to go down there and help him change it.”
“Pebbles can change a tire.”
“Nah, he’ll lose the lug nuts or something. It’ll go faster with me helping him.” His good humor—if you could call it that—restored, he grinned at them. “Don’t you two go anywhere while I’m gone.” He walked away, and the front door opened and closed again.
A snuffling sounded as Edgar’s shadow stretched out on the floor. He hopped slowly into the room. There were no other noises within the apartment.
“Hah!” Mickey’s exultant laugh caught her by surprise.
She lifted a brow at him.
“I just bought us five, maybe ten minutes.” He fumbled about on the floor, trying to find a way to stand. “We just need to figure out how to get loose.”
“I think I’m halfway there,” Iris said. Gritting her teeth, she raised her arms from behind her, over her head and down into her lap. Her wrists were still bound, and her shoulders ached with the strain.
Mickey had almost found his balance when he looked in her direction and toppled to the floor again. “How the hell’d you do that?”
“Double jointed. Mom said my Nikolaevsky ancestors were acrobats.” The problem was, with her hands bound, she couldn’t rotate her shoulders back into place. She needed to get this rope off.
Renouncing the pain, she bent over to work on the cords binding her thighs to the chair seat.
“That’s great. Now untie me, and I’ll untie you.”
“Go to hell.” With her legs free, she stalked past him to the living room, intent on finding her things. Jock had left her purse and her keys right on the dining table. Beside them lay Mickey’s cell phone, wallet and gun.
She tossed her keys in her purse before considering her bound hands again. She was going to look great hailing a cab—assuming she could find a cab in this neighborhood. She didn’t have a very clear idea of where she was.
“Iris.” Mickey’s voice carried from the bedroom. “Turner’s not going to accept any excuses for me handing over fake stones. If you leave me here, they’ll kill me.”
Good. But she closed her eyes as she thought it, once again trying to evade that image of Pebbles shooting Mickey in the head. She picked up the gun from the table, being sure to keep it pointed away from her. She didn’t know that much about guns, and with her hands tied, she had limited range of motion. She walked back into the bedroom to find Mickey sitting on the chair she’d vacated.
His eyes grew round when he saw the gun. “Whoa now, tiger.”
“Just tell me, where’s his body?” She wanted to find it before Turner did. That was the least she could do for her sisters.
Mickey watched Iris approach. Vengeance brightened her eyes, making him sweat. “I swear to you, he’s alive as far as I know.” He tilted his chin to the right to avoid the muzzle of the gun. “Do you know anything about handguns?”
“Not really. You just pull the trigger, right?”
Shit. “First off, you only point it at someone you intend to kill.” He braved a direct look to appraise her mood. Iris was tied up in knots that had nothing to do with the cord still around her wrists. She was exhausted and scared and angry—not to mention, she had to be in pain—any of which could have her accidentally pulling that trigger. “Could you just point that at the floor?”
“Not as much fun when you’re not in control, is it, Mickey, ol’ pal?” But she lowered the gun. “I don’t know what to do with you. You say you didn’t kill Cosmo, but I can’t be certain. I can’t trust you anymore. I think it’s better if we part company here.”
Mickey’s heart sank. Oddly, it wasn’t the thought of being left here to die, it was the thought that he’d had her trust and lost it. But he knew what he had to do.
“Look, Rissie, we don’t have time to chat about it. You need to get out of here, now. Take that gun with you—turn it into the police. They’ll know what to do with it.” With luck, Hunter would find his body one day.
She wavered. “I’m sorry.” Self-preservation made her eager to bolt, he could tell.
“I’ll be fine,” he said with all the bravado he could muster. Anything to get her out of here. If this were the only way to save her, so be it. “Don’t worry. I can talk my way out of anything. Now go.”
She swiped at what he suspected was a tear, then she walked out. He heard sounds in the other room. Iris gathering her things, her low voice reassuring Edgar as she worked.
“Leave my phone, will you?” he called out to her. “I might be able to call my next of kin.”
“It’s on the table.”
He heard a door open and close. And then, silence.
Heaving a breath meant only to refresh his lungs, Mickey balanced on his feet again and made his way into the living room the only way he could—hopping like a goddamn rabbit. But there was his phone. If he could get it open and speed dia
l Hunter, he might survive the night.
Although, if he couldn’t find Cosmo, he wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to look Iris Fortune in the face again.
He used his nose to nudge the phone near the edge of the table, then turned around and fumbled the phone with his hands until he managed to get it open. He felt along the buttons, feeling pretty sure that he’d dialed *9. When he tried to put the phone back on the table so he could turn and talk into it, the phone slipped and fell to the floor.
“Shit.” He dropped to his knees, which hurt like hell, but it beat having them shot off, which could still be on tonight’s agenda if he didn’t get this right. He heard the phone connection ringing, but couldn’t see—ah, there, underneath the table.
“Hello?”
Double shit. He’d dialed *8. “Mom?”
“Michael! What a nice surprise. Two calls in two nights. You must be wrapping up that case of yours.”
“Working on it. Hey, is Dad there?”
“No, he’s gone to midnight bowling. Can I have him call you when he gets home?”
Mickey doubted he’d be alive for two ten-frames and a pitcher of beer with the boys. Worse, he had to find a way to get Mom to hang up. He couldn’t reach his phone under the table, and he couldn’t bear the thought of her listening to what would happen to him when Turner arrived. “Mom, I do need you to do something for me—”
The apartment door’s handle jiggled.
“What is it, dearie?”
Mickey froze, all the horrors of his brother’s murder fresh in his mind. It grieved him to put his mother through all that pain again. Dying wouldn’t hurt him, it was the family he’d leave behind who would suffer.
“Hang up the phone. I need to go.”
He was about to die. What a hell of a time to discover just how much he wanted to live.
Chapter Ten
The door opened, and Mickey peeked over the dining table to confront his executioner.