by Nora Roberts
“Jesus Christ.”
“You take care of the tires on that Mercedes with this?”
“Tires.” Jack breathed deep, in, out. “Yeah. I can do that.”
“All right. Here’s the way we play it.”
Inside, Laine pushed herself up. Her ears rang from the blow, and under the pounding, she cursed herself for not moving quickly enough, not anticipating his reaction so she’d taken a swipe rather than a direct hit.
She knew her eyes were bright with tears, but she wouldn’t shed them. Instead she burned them away with a hot stare as she laid a hand on her throbbing cheekbone. “You bastard. You son of a bitch.”
He gripped her by the shirt, hauled her an inch off the couch. She stretched out her free arm as she stared back at him, but she was still short of her goal. “Who were you going to call, Laine? Dear old Dad?”
“You idiot.” Her response, and the furious shove surprised him enough to have him dropping her back onto the couch. “Did you tell me to empty my pockets? Did you ask if I had a phone? It’s off, isn’t it? I always carry it around with me in the shop. You’ve been with me the whole time, Einstein. Did I make any calls?”
He seemed to consider, then turned the phone over and studied it. “It appears to be off.” He powered it up. After it searched for and found service, the phone gave a little trill. “It seems you have a message. Why don’t we see who’s been trying to reach you?”
“Kiss my ass.” She gave an annoyed shrug, scooted closer to the table, reached for the wine bottle and refilled her glass. Her hand remained perfectly steady when she heard Max’s voice announce he was back.
“There, does that sound like I’ve contacted him by phone or the power of my mind? Jesus.” He was a good four feet away now. Too far. Setting the bottle down, she cupped her injured cheek. “Get me some goddamn ice for this.”
“I don’t like orders.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t like getting clocked by some guy with an impulse-control problem. How the hell am I going to explain this bruise, and believe me, it’ll be a beaut. You just complicated everything. And you know what else, hot-shot? My previous offer is now off the table. I don’t sleep with men who hit me. Not ever, not for anything.” She eased forward a bit, as if comforting herself, and continued to rub her cheek.
“Straight business deal now. No side bennies.”
“You seem to forget, this isn’t a negotiation.”
“Everything’s negotiable. You’ve got half, I’ve got half. You want all. I, on the other hand, am more realistic, and a lot less greedy. Take these damn things off,” she demanded, rattling the cuffs. “Where the hell am I going?”
She saw his hand move, very slightly, toward his left pants pocket. Then drop away again. “I don’t think so. Now . . .” He started toward her. “The diamonds.”
“You hit me again, you lay a hand on me, and I swear, I’ll see the cops get them before you get one more stone.”
“You have a delicate build, Laine. Delicate bones break easily. I think you have a strong mind; it might take a great deal to break that. I could start with your hand. Do you know how many bones there are in the human hand? I can’t quite remember, but I believe there are quite a few.”
His eyes came alive as he said it, and nothing in the whole of her life had ever frightened her more than that amused gleam. “Some will snap, some will shatter. It would be very painful. You’ll tell me where the diamonds are, and you’ll tell me the truth, because even a strong mind can tolerate only so much pain.”
Her pulse was pounding in her temples, in her throat, in her fingertips, drums of terror, all but deafening. “And only a sick one gets juiced at the thought of causing it. You know, without that little flaw, I would’ve enjoyed spending some time with you.”
She had to keep her eyes on his, steady on his. Survival depended on it. “I like stealing,” she continued. “I like taking what belongs to someone else and making it mine. It’s such a rush. But the rush isn’t worth pain. It’s never worth my life. That’s a little something I picked up from my father. I think we’ve reached a point where you want the diamonds more than I do. You want to know where they are? That’s easier than you think. But getting to them, well...”
Her heart was thumping like a jackhammer as she curved her lips, curled her finger. “Come here, and I’ll give you a little hint.”
“You’ll do better than that.”
“Oh, come on. At least let me have some fun with it.” She toyed with the pendant around her neck, held it up. “What does this look like to you?” She let out a soft laugh. “Come on, Alex, take a closer look.”
She knew she had him when he stepped to her, when his gaze fastened on the pendant. She let it drop again, to free her hand, then leaned forward again as if to pick up her wineglass. “It’s all about misdirection, really. Another little thing I picked up from my father.”
She tilted her face up so his attention would lock on it. There would only be one chance. He reached down for the necklace, bending, angling his head so he could get a closer look.
And she came off the couch, swinging the wine bottle in a furious roundhouse. There was the hideous crack of glass on bone, the splatter of red wine like a gush of blood. The momentum had him spilling over backward as she stood in her half crouch, panting, the bottle still clutched in her hand.
She dropped to her knees, fighting off a wave of nausea as she stretched out to try to reach him. She had to get the key out of his pocket, get the gun, get the phone. Get away.
“No! Goddamn it.” Tears of frustration burned in her eyes as she strained her muscles and found he’d fallen just out of her reach. She scrambled up again, climbed over the couch, ramming it with her shoulder to nudge it across the floor. Just a little closer. Just a little.
The blood roared in her ears, and her own voice, high and desperate, sounded miles away as she ordered herself to Come on, come on, come on!
She dove back on the floor, snatching at his pant leg, tugging his body toward her. “The key, the key, oh God, please, let him have the key.”
She glanced over. The gun was on the kitchen counter eight feet away. Until she’d unlocked the cuffs, it might as well have been eight hundred. Bearing down, she stretched out until the metal cut into her wrist, but her free hand reached his pocket and her trembling fingers dipped in.
Those stinging tears spilled over when her fingers met the small piece of metal. Breath wheezing, she fumbled it into the lock, cursed herself again and gritted her teeth. The tiny click was like a gunshot. She offered incoherent prayers of thanks as she shoved the cuff off her wrist.
“Think. Just think. Breathe and think.” She sat on the floor, taking a few precious seconds to cut through the panic.
Maybe she’d killed him. Maybe she’d stunned him. She was damned if she was going to check. But if he wasn’t dead, he’d come after her. She could run, but he’d come after her.
She scrambled up again and, grunting, panting, began to drag him toward the couch. Toward the cuffs. She’d lock him down, that’s what she’d do. She’d lock him down. Get the phone, get the gun, call for help.
Relief flooded in when she snapped the cuff on his wrist. Blood trickled down his face, dripped on her hand as she pushed his jacket aside, reached into the inside pocket for her phone.
The sudden blare of a car alarm ripped a short scream out of her throat. She jolted, looked toward the door. Someone was out there. Someone could help.
“Help.” The word came out in a whisper, and she pushed herself to her feet. As she sprang forward, a hand grabbed her ankle and sent her slamming facedown onto the floor.
She didn’t scream. The sounds she made were feral growls as she kicked back, crawled forward. He yanked, hooking an arm around her legs so she was forced to swivel, shoving herself up from the waist to use her fists, her nails.
The horn continued to sound, like a two-tone scream, over and over while she tore at him, while he pulled her closer. Blood
matted his hair, streaked his face, gushed out of fresh wounds where her nails ripped.
She heard a crash, and one of her flailing arms landed on broken glass. The new jolt of pain had her rolling over, digging in with elbows to gain a few precious inches. Once again her hand closed over the wine bottle.
This time when her body jerked around she had it gripped in both hands like a batter at the plate. And she swung hard for the fences.
There was a pounding—in her head? In the room? Outside? Somewhere a pounding. But his grip on her released, his eyes rolled back and his body went still.
Whimpering, she scuttled back like a crab.
That’s how Max saw her when he rushed into the room. Crouched on the floor, blood on her hands, her pants and shirt torn and splotched with red.
“Laine. Jesus God almighty.” He lunged to her, the cold control he’d snapped on to get inside, to get to her, shattered like glass. He was on his knees beside her, running his hands over her face, her hair, her body. “How bad are you hurt? Where are you hurt? Are you shot?”
“What? Shot?” Her vision skipped, like a scratched film. “No. I’m . . . it’s wine.” A giddy bubble exploded in her throat and came out as a crazed laugh. “Red wine, and, oh, some of this is blood. His. Mostly his. Is he dead?” She said it almost conversationally. “Did I kill him?”
He brushed the hair back from her face, skimmed his thumb gently over her bruised cheekbone. “Can you hold on?”
“Sure. No problem. I just want to sit here.”
Max walked over, crouched by Crew. “Alive,” he said after he checked for a pulse. Then he studied the torn, battered and bloodied face. “Did a number on him, didn’t you?”
“I hit him with the wine bottle.” The room was moving, she realized, ever so slightly. And there seemed to be little waves in the air, like water. “Twice. You came. You got my message.”
“Yeah. I got your message.” He patted Crew down for weapons, then went back to Laine. “You sure you’re not hurt?”
“I just feel numb right now.”
“Okay then.” He set his gun on the floor beside them and wrapped his arms around her. All the fear, the fury, the desperation he’d fought off for the last hour rolled into him, rolled out again. “I gotta hold on,” he murmured against her throat. “I don’t want to hurt you, but I’ve gotta hold on.”
“Me too.” She burrowed into him. “Me too. I knew you’d come. I knew you’d be here. Doesn’t mean I can’t take care of myself.” She eased back a little. “I told you I can take care of myself.”
“Hard to argue with that. Let’s see if we can stand up.” When they gained their feet, she leaned into him, looked down at Crew. “I really laid him out. I feel . . . empowered and satisfied and . . .” She swallowed, pressed a hand to her stomach. “And a little bit sick.”
“Let’s get you outside, get you some air. I’ll take care of things in here. Cops are on their way.”
“Okay. Am I shaking or is that you?”
“Little of both. You’ve got a little shock going on, Laine. We’ll get you out, and I want you to just sit down on the ground, lie down if it makes you feel better. We’ll call for an ambulance.”
“I don’t need an ambulance.”
“That’s debatable, but he sure as hell does. Here we go.”
He led her out. Jack sprang from the corner of the house, the knife in one hand, a rock in the other. Laine’s first muddled thought was how silly he looked.
Then he lowered both arms, and the knife and rock fell from his limp fingers to the ground. He stumbled forward, swept her in.
“Lainie. Lainie.” Pressing his face to her shoulder, he burst into tears.
“It’s all right. I’m all right. Shh.” She cupped his face, drawing back to kiss his cheeks. “We’re all right, Dad.”
“I couldn’t’ve lived. I couldn’t—”
“You came. You came when I needed you. Aren’t I lucky to love two men who are there when I need them?”
“I didn’t know if I was coming back,” he began.
On a wave of tenderness, she brushed tears from his cheeks. “But you did, didn’t you? Now you’ve got to go.”
“Lainie.”
“The police will be here any minute. I haven’t gone through all this to see you arrested. Go. Before they come.”
“There are things I need to say to you.”
“Later. You can say them later. You know where I live. Please, Daddy, go.”
Max stepped back out with the phone to his ear. “Crew’s secured. Laine’s banged up but she’s okay. Crew’s going to need some medical attention. Laine and I’ll wait here. What’s your ETA? Good. We’ll wait.” He clicked off. “Vince and the rest of them will be rolling in. You’ve got about five minutes,” he said to Jack. “Better get moving.”
“Thanks.” Jack offered his hand. “Maybe you are—almost—good enough for her. I’ll be seeing you. Soon,” he added as he turned to Laine. “Soon, baby girl.”
“They’re coming.” She heard the sirens. “Hurry.”
“Take more than some hick cops to catch Big Jack O’Hara.” He winked at her. “Keep a light burning for me.” He jogged toward the woods, turned for a quick salute, then disappeared into them.
“Well.” Laine let out a long breath. “There he goes. Thanks.”
“For what?” Max asked as she kissed him.
“For letting my father go.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve never met your father.”
On a muffled laugh, she rubbed her eyes. “I think I’m going to do that sitting-on-the-ground thing now.”
It wasn’t difficult to win a debate about a visit to the ER with a man who was so relieved you were alive and whole he’d have given you anything you asked for. Laine took advantage of it, and of Vince’s friendship, to go straight home.
She’d be required to give a more complete statement to the chief of police the next morning. But he’d accepted her abbreviated account of events.
She’d given it while she sat on the ground outside the cabin, with a blanket around her shoulders. Though she’d come through her ordeal with Crew with nothing more serious than cuts and bruises, she didn’t object when Max cut off the police questioning, scooped her off the ground and carried her to his car.
It gave her a lot of satisfaction to watch Crew hauled out on a stretcher.
A lot of satisfaction.
Jack O’Hara’s daughter still had the moves.
Grateful, was all Laine could think as she spent a full twenty minutes under the hot pulsing spray of the shower. She was so grateful to Max, to Vince, to fate. Hell, she was grateful for digital communication. So much so she was going to retire her cell phone, have it mounted and hung in a place of honor.
And she would never drink cabernet again as long as she lived.
She stepped out of the shower, dried herself gingerly. The numbness was long gone, and every bump, scrape and bruise ached like fury. She swallowed four aspirin, then gathered her courage and took a look at herself in the full-length mirror.
“Oh. Ouch.” She hissed out a breath as she turned for the rear view. She was a colorful mess of bruises. Hips, shins, knees, arms. And the beaut she’d predicted on her right cheek.
But they’d fade, she thought. They’d fade and be forgotten as she went back to living her life. And Alex Crew would spend the rest of his behind bars. She hoped he cursed her name every day of that life. And she hoped he spent every night dreaming of diamonds.
As a concession to the bruises, she dressed in loose sweats, tied her damp hair back loosely. As a concession to vanity, she spent some time with makeup to downplay the mark of violence on her face.
Then she turned, spread her arms and addressed Henry, who’d shadowed her—even in the bathroom—since she’d retrieved him from Jenny’s. “Not too bad, right?”
She found Max in the kitchen, heating the contents of a can of soup on the stove. “Thought you mig
ht be hungry.”
“You thought right.”
He stepped to her, played his fingers over the bruise. “I’m sorry I wasn’t faster.”
“If you’re sorry, you’re diminishing my own courage and cleverness and I’ve been congratulating myself on them.”
“Wouldn’t want to do that, but I’ve got to say, I feel cheated. You robbed me of a chance to beat that son of a bitch into pulp.”
“Next time we deal with a homicidal sociopath, you can take him down.”
“Next time.” He turned back to stir the soup. Laine linked her hands.