Running Scared

by Elizabeth Lowell

  “Stop smiling,” she muttered. She felt as though every extra ounce on her breasts and hips was jiggling a neon message of excess.

  “I don’t think so, darling. Looking at you makes a man pleased. So much woman to enjoy.”

  She looked up, saw the smoky concentration in his eyes, and knew that he meant it. “And here I thought you liked swizzle-stick models.”

  She snapped on her bra and settled it in place with a casual shimmy that made his breath thicken. “Why the devil did you think that?”

  The rasp in his voice made her pause in the act of pulling up her underwear. He was watching the glide of dark lace. And his arousal was as naked as he was.

  She stared. He was worth staring at.

  “Close your eyes,” she said finally.

  “Why?”

  “I’m shy.”

  The corner of his mouth curled up. He hooked an arm around her hips, pulled her against the bed, and nuzzled the hot curls between her thighs. “Okay, I can’t see you now.”

  The slick probe of his tongue loosened her knees. Underwear forgotten, she buried her fingers in the short, midnight pelt of his hair. She told herself she was going to push him away.

  She pulled him closer.

  A melodic chiming came from the front room of his apartment.

  “What did he do—teleport?” Shane muttered.

  “I imagine he took your direct elevator.” Her voice was husky, as raspy as the beard stubble caressing her thighs, as hot as his tongue.

  “Sometimes staff efficiency is a pain in the butt,” he said, and burrowed deeper.

  Her knees buckled.

  The door chimed.

  “Damn.” With a lingering love bite he eased her panties up until his mouth was against lace rather than woman. Then he rolled aside, flipped an intercom switch, and said, “Thanks for the speedy delivery. Just shove it under the door.”

  Risa drew a shaky breath and ran for the bathroom before she changed her mind and fell all over him like hot rain. She grabbed a robe that was brushed silk, black, and too big for her by half.

  As fast as she moved, the delivery service was faster. When she got to the hall door, a smooth, creamy envelope with the Golden Fleece’s raised gilded logo had already been pushed under the door. “VERY URGENT” was stamped on the envelope in red.

  She ripped open the message and read quickly: If Shane Tannahill wants six pieces of Celtic gold for his show, tell him to bring two hundred thousand dollars in hundred-dollar bills to the parking lot of the Water Stop by seven o’clock this morning. If he comes with anybody but you, he’ll never see these six pieces of gold again. There are other buyers in Vegas.

  “Damn,” Risa said. “I was sure there were more than six pieces.”

  “You talking to me?” Shane asked from the bedroom.

  “Only if you have clothes on.”

  “Waste of time. You’ll just tear them off.”

  “I wish.” She looked at the clock—6:37. “Next time, I promise. What’s the Water Stop?”

  Barefoot, Shane walked into the living room, buttoning up a pair of jeans. “A downtown sex club with slots.”

  She took one look and glanced away. The man was a walking invitation to sin, and she didn’t even have time to drool. She shoved the message into his hand and ran past him to collect her clothes. “Okay. Parking lot should be pretty empty at this hour, so we won’t have any trouble spotting them.”

  He read the message in one lightning scan and felt something really unhappy settle in his gut. “I’ll let you know how it goes.”

  She appeared in the doorway, her hands fisted on her hips. “What do you mean, you’ll let me know?”

  “Guess.” He walked past her and pulled a fresh shirt from his closet.

  Risa hurriedly pulled on slacks and shook out a rumpled blouse. “Wait! How do you know it isn’t a stickup?”

  “I don’t.” He grabbed shoes and kicked them on. “That’s why you’re staying.”

  “But—”

  “Sometimes it’s better alone.” He tied his running shoes with sharp, quick motions. “This is one of those times. You’re staying here.”

  “Shove your orders! I don’t work for you anymore!”

  “Call Niall. He’ll tell you the same thing.”

  Without a word she went over and punched in Niall’s very private number. It went through before Shane got to the wall safe and put his hand over the scanner.

  “What’s up, Shane?”

  “It’s Risa.”

  In another room down the hall, Niall smiled because she was calling from one of Shane’s private numbers. Maybe the atmosphere around those two would stop crackling now that they had spent the night destroying a bed together.

  “Good morning, luv. What’s up?”

  “Cherelle has six pieces of gold she wants to sell Shane for two hundred thousand dollars cash in the parking lot of a downtown dive called the Water Stop. Twenty-one minutes and counting.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  Before Niall finished talking, the sound of the connection changed as it went on the speaker.

  “Don’t bother,” Shane said. “This party is by invitation only. You weren’t invited.”

  “No worries. I’ve crashed a lot of parties in my day.”

  “You crash this one and six pieces of fine Celtic gold disappear forever. Dana wouldn’t be happy. ‘Buy, Sell, Appraise, Protect,’ “ Shane said, quoting Rarities Unlimited’s motto. “Remember?”

  “All right. I’ll hang back so nobody gets nervous. Risa, you still there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Stay there.”

  “But—”

  “That’s an order,” Niall said over her objection. “You don’t have security training, so you’d just be a liability if it all goes from sugar to shit. Lapstrake will take over guard duty on you.”

  “This is crap! I know Cherelle. You don’t. I can—”

  “Stay put or find another employer,” Niall cut in. “Shane, I’ll send Ian over to your room and meet you downstairs in two minutes. Do you have enough cash on hand?”

  “I own a casino. What do you think?”

  “I think I’m in the wrong business.”

  Chapter 55

  Las Vegas

  November 5

  Early morning

  Shane drove to the Water Stop with one eye on the traffic, one eye on the mirrors, and the memory of Risa’s anger ringing in his ears. He didn’t envy Ian the next hour or two. The lady was passionate in more than the sexual sense of the word.

  By the time Shane was two blocks from the Water Stop, he still hadn’t discovered any tails. Nobody seemed interested in him at all. Niall had taken an alternate route and was already in place. After a final check of mirrors, Shane picked up the cell phone and punched in the redial while he waited at a stoplight.

  Niall answered instantly. “There are maybe thirty cars in the parking lot. Several have people in them, but only one has a female alone. She’s already sent off three separate men who approached her.”

  “What kind of car?”

  “An old Bronco. Can’t see the plates.”

  “Sounds good.” Even as he spoke, Shane wished his instincts felt good. But they didn’t. They were sitting up and howling alarms. “She has a Bronco.”

  “From here the woman sure doesn’t look like a blonde with good tits.”

  “Cherelle likes disguises.”

  Niall grunted. “I’m not happy with this, boyo. I’m across the street. You’ll be in the open with two hundred big ones in cash. There are panel vans and RVs scattered around the lot. Someone could pop out and dump you before I could take two steps.”

  Shane didn’t like it either, but he didn’t see any way around it except to walk away from the gold. He wasn’t willing to do that. If the pieces were anything like what he’d bought from Smith-White, they literally defined “priceless.” They were golden icons from a time that was long since gone and a culture
that would never live again.

  It was worth some risk to save them.

  “I’ve taken bigger chances,” Shane said. “And I’m wearing the body armor you gave me.”

  “Body armor ain’t worth shit if you’re shot in the head.”

  “You’re such a comfort.”

  “Dana points it out to me daily.”

  “I’m a block away,” Shane said. “Let me know when you see me.”

  There was silence for ten seconds.

  “Gotcha,” Niall said. “You see the Bronco?”

  “Yes. I don’t see you.”

  “That’s the whole idea. Remember, if it goes to shit, take care of yourself first. I’ll take care of the rest.”

  “I don’t think it’s a rip-off.”

  “I hope you’re right. How’s the hair on the back of your neck?”

  “Restless,” Shane admitted. “But not on the subject of robbery.”

  “Then what?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Bloody hell,” Niall said, disgusted. “You and Erik North are a real pair. Not an ounce of useful precognition between the two of you.”

  Shane was still smiling when he drove into the Water Stop’s parking area. It didn’t take him long to locate the Bronco, but he drove past it anyway, doing a slow lap around the lot. Other than an itchy neck, nothing happened. If anything, he felt better. Between the hookers and semipros cutting deals in the backs of campers, and the steady trickle of randy johns walking out of the club looking for some parking-lot action, there were too many witnesses for a crook to feel comfortable about armed robbery.

  Unless the crook was as stupid as Socks. But the call hadn’t come from Socks. It had come from Cherelle Faulkner.

  When Shane pulled up next to the Bronco, he couldn’t help wondering if Socks was with Cherelle. Even as the thought came, he shrugged it off. From what Risa had heard Socks say about Cherelle, they weren’t what anyone would describe as close.

  As soon as Shane got out of his car carrying a small suitcase, the door of the Bronco popped open and a woman climbed out.

  She wasn’t Cherelle Faulkner.

  Chapter 56

  Las Vegas

  November 5

  7:00 a.m.

  Gnawing on the inside of her mouth, Cherelle sat in the middle of the unmade bed and stared at the television. She had gone through a whole cycle of news promos and ads for breath mints, “sexergizers,” and gambling tips. Other than running the tape of Socks busting through the Golden Fleece and saying that the police had identified him as Cesar Firenze Marquez, nephew of the CEO and part-owner of Roman Circus, John Firenze, who was cooperating with police in the search for his nephew, the news had nothing to say about the apprehension and lockup of Socks.

  “Well, shit,” Cherelle said.

  She dragged her fingers through her hair so she wouldn’t have to look at their fine trembling. She wanted some crack. She wanted it bad. Not that she was hooked. She could take it or leave it.

  Right now she wanted to take it.

  Problem was, she wouldn’t have any money to get crack unless she hit another jackpot, sold her ass on a street corner, or Socks got nailed so she could sell the gold without falling on her face from looking over her shoulder the whole time.

  “How many cops does it take to find one stupid asshole?” she asked.

  The TV cut back to the judges of the Santa Claus bikini contest. They had big hair and tits like rocket ships, probably used to find out if a man had any working equipment under his big belly.

  “You dumb bitches! Give me some news! Tell me the cops took him down!”

  Somebody in the room next door pounded on the wall and yelled at her to shut-the-fuck-up.

  Cherelle came off the bed like a tiger and started to heave the lamp at the wall. All that stopped her was that the lamp was nailed to the bedside table. Cursing, she yanked until her nails were bloody. Then she caught a glimpse of herself in the dresser mirror. At first she didn’t recognize the woman with the pale, sweating face and dull hair standing out in all directions. Then she did.

  Christ Jesus. I look like some whacked-out crackhead. That isn’t me!

  She stopped pulling at the lamp. Carefully she smoothed her hair down and forced her breathing to level.

  “It’s okay, mama-chick. You’ll do fine. You always do. Take a big ol’ shower. Get some coffee. Some food. Maybe a beer or two. If they haven’t caught the dumb fuck by then, he’s left town, and you don’t need to worry no more.”

  Nothing answered her words but an earnest middle-aged man on the TV, telling her that her sexual troubles were over. No prescriptions. No harsh chemicals, just Mother Nature’s own—

  The shower came on, drowning out everything else for Cherelle but the gnawing need to sell the gold and get a little crack.

  Not much. Just a little.

  Just enough to take the edge off.

  Chapter 57

  Las Vegas

  November 5

  7:00 a.m.

  Hands empty, Shane leaned against his car. As soon as he’d seen that the woman wasn’t Cherelle, he put the briefcase full of money into the trunk and locked it. He would have turned around and driven off, but the closer he got to the Bronco, the more his instincts were reminded of how it had felt at Virgil’s house.

  Only stronger.

  Almost as strong as when he’d picked up the first of Smith-White’s offerings and felt time peeling away like smoke in a hard wind and he was standing in an oak grove with the moon in his face and a solid gold knife in his hands.

  “No gold until I see the money,” the woman said for maybe the sixth time.

  Though she was dressed like a tart in crotch-length black skirt and half-unbuttoned see-through blouse, Shane knew she wasn’t in the business of selling herself. He couldn’t have said why he was so certain, but he was. Right clothes, wrong everything else.

  “Lady, you can huff and puff all you like,” Shane said. “You aren’t Cherelle. Your Bronco has Nevada rental plates. That’s two big strikes against you. Until I see the gold, you don’t see the money.” He looked at his watch. “Fifty seconds more and I’m gone.”

  “There are other markets for—”

  “Forty-five,” he cut in calmly. He’d heard it all from her before. It hadn’t impressed him the first time. It was downright tiresome the fifth time.

  Body armor itched in awkward places.

  The woman looked at his stone green eyes and discovered what many another player had—Shane Tannahill didn’t give away anything he didn’t want to. She could pick up the cards he dealt or she could get out of the game.

  With a hissing curse, she turned on her four-inch platform shoes and swung her hips hard all the way to the back of the Bronco. She yanked open the cargo door, reached inside, and unzipped the lid of a small suitcase.

  “Okay, big man,” she said. “Drag ass over here and take a look.”

  None of Shane’s relief showed as he slowly straightened and reached into his pocket for exam gloves. He hadn’t expected the woman to be so stubborn about not showing the artifacts; it had made him wonder if this might be some kind of scam after all. If it hadn’t been for the prickling along his nerves that reminded him of a dead man’s gold, he would have been long gone from the parking lot.

  He wondered if the cops had found Virgil’s body yet. If so, it hadn’t made the Vegas news. But then, there was no reason it should. Lots of old folks died every day. Some of them were murdered. There probably hadn’t been enough left of the corpse to determine yet if Virgil had died on his own or had a big shove off into the night.

  “You coming?” she asked.

  Casually Shane snapped the gloves into place, walked the few steps to the back of the Bronco, and glanced into the open cargo door.

  Gold glowed against red velvet as though lit from within.

  The woman started to move closer.

  Shane stepped away. “Give me room. Or do you really think I�
��m going to grab and run?”

  The woman hesitated before she backed up a few steps. Her glance moved restlessly over the parking lot before darting back to him.

  He shifted position so he could keep an eye on her as well as the gold. He was vulnerable to attack while he examined the gold, but his greatest danger was when she saw the money. If she had any confederates parked around the lot, that was when they would act.

  Though everything in Shane yearned to savor the artifacts like a fine, rare wine, he held each piece for only a few moments. The torc was magnificent, heavy, shimmering with power. Two brooches, each as extraordinary as the one he’d purchased from Smith-White. Each with a current of power. The figurines were obviously part of a fertility ritual. A golden phallus and an impressively potent bull.

  And a ring like the one he wore.

  He knew it would fit on Risa’s hand. Perfectly. It was all he could do to put the ring down.

  Fingers tingling, Shane zipped up the suitcase and moved back. “Where did you get these?”

  She laughed derisively. “Where do you think?”

  “I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking.”

  “Cherelle had them. She sold them to me. I’m selling them to you. You want paperwork, you don’t buy shit in parking lots.”

  Without a word Shane went to his own car, unlocked the trunk, and opened his own suitcase. Bundles of used hundred-dollar bills filled it. He gestured to the woman and backed up to give her room.

  She bent over and riffled through five bundles at random in the manner of someone who is used to judging stacks of money. Then she closed the suitcase, picked it up, and turned to him.

  “Looks good to me,” she said, and headed for her vehicle.

  Shane took her suitcase out of the Bronco and laid it in his open trunk.

  As he closed the lid, the woman grabbed a gun from the side pocket of the Bronco’s door. When she spun toward him, the sun flashed on a very modern kind of gold.