Tall, Dark, and Dangerous Part 2

by Suzanne Brockmann

  “You need to work for yourself,” Mish told her. “Buy your own spread.”

  Becca laughed. “Yes, thank you very much, I should, but last time I looked, the millionaires weren’t exactly lining up with marriage proposals. And the bank’s not likely to give me a three-million-dollar mortgage with only a beat-up pickup truck as collateral.”

  He couldn’t seem to force himself to stand up. “Is that really what it would cost?”

  “I don’t know,” she admitted. “It’s so outside of the realm of possibility, I haven’t even checked to see if any local properties are for sale.”

  “Maybe you should.”

  “Why torture myself?” she challenged.

  “It’s only torture if you think in terms of what you don’t have. If you look at it as something to strive for, it’s a dream. And it’s amazing what people can achieve with just a little bit of hope and a dream.”

  She was looking at him the same way she had back in the barn, the same way she’d looked at him right before he’d kissed her in the office. Her eyes were soft and so impossibly warm.

  “What’s your dream, Mish?” she whispered.

  “Peace,” he said. He didn’t have to hesitate. “My dream is to find some peace.”

  Oh, Lord, he was doing it again. He was leaning toward her, closer and closer and…He pushed himself back in his seat and somehow managed to smile. “Peace, and a ride into Santa Fe tomorrow morning.”

  “Santa Fe?” She shifted slightly back in her own chair. “Are you leaving already?”

  She’d moved just slightly, barely noticeably. That and the shade of disappointment in her eyes were almost imperceptible. Yet there was something about her words, something about her resignation that sucker punched him with a double dose of emotion. Frustration. And anger. Anger at himself. Anger at her for guilting him out every time he…

  Every time he…

  Left…?

  What the hell…?

  “Mish, are you all right?” Across the table, Becca’s eyes were wide as she gazed at him.

  He took a deep breath, blowing it out hard. “Sorry,” he said. “I was…That was…déjà vu or something, I don’t know. Weird.” He ran his hand down his face. “I’m just…I’m going to Santa Fe—Albuquerque, actually—for a few days. I have something that needs to be taken care of. I figured as long as you’re giving me this time off, I might as well put it to good use. I’ll be back by Monday at the latest.”

  She was still watching him closely, concern in her eyes. “Anything I can help with?”

  Becca wasn’t being nosy. She actually meant it. She wanted to help.

  But what would she do if he told her, “Yeah. See, I have complete and total amnesia. I have absolutely no idea who I am—oh, except for the little clues I’ve picked up here and there, which lead me to believe I’m a hired assassin and an ex-con. While I go visit the previous address that was listed in my personnel file and try to stir up any suppressed memories, why don’t you check out the faces on the most-wanted list in the post office, and see if you can find me there?”

  Mish cleared his throat. “No,” he said instead. “Thanks, though.”

  She poured the rest of her beer into her glass. “Well,” she said. “I’m actually driving into Santa Fe day after tomorrow, if you want to wait until then to go. I’ve got to put in an appearance for the Whitlows at a fund-raising dinner for the Santa Fe Opera.”

  “Thanks,” Mish said again. “But the sooner I get there, the better. I really should go tomorrow.”

  “Maybe,” Becca said, then stopped. She laughed. “God, this is insane, but…I have an extra ticket to the dinner. The food’s great…and I’m just so pathetic—I can’t believe I’m asking you out again.” She laughed again as she slumped over the table, head buried in her arms.

  Mish didn’t know what to say.

  She lifted her head and looked him in the eye. “I don’t do this with everyone. In fact, I’ve never done this with anyone. I just…really like you.”

  Her words warmed him. She liked him. “I don’t know why. You don’t know me, Bec. I could be someone awful.”

  “No, you couldn’t. You’re too nice. You have this basic goodness at the core of your being—”

  He let loose a pungent curse he rarely said aloud. “You don’t know that. So I pulled a kid out of a river. That doesn’t make me a saint.”

  “Maybe not, but it makes you someone I want to know better.” She leaned toward him. “Come to this dinner with me—as a friend. We can set some boundaries right now, if you want. No sex. Okay? We meet at the dinner, we leave separately. No pressure, no temptation, even.”

  Mish had to laugh at that. “You know, I think this is a first for me. Being enticed to go out to dinner by the promise of no sex.”

  Her eyes sparked. “If you want, we can set different boundaries—”

  “No,” he said hastily.

  “I’ll leave the ticket at the door for you,” Becca told him. She stood up, and he rose to his feet, too. “The party’s being held at the Sidewinder Café—it’s a restaurant near the center of town. Doors open at six. I’ll probably arrive at six forty-five.”

  He had nothing to wear to a formal party. And even if he did, he had no business deceiving this woman any further. She thought he was nice. He knew—for both of their sakes—he should stay far away from her.

  But when he opened his mouth, he said, “All right. I’ll see you on Saturday. At six forty-five.”

  He was completely insane.

  “Well,” Becca said. “Good.”

  And she smiled. And when she smiled, her entire face lit up, and as Mish watched her walk away, being completely insane suddenly didn’t seem so terrible.

  Bobby and Wes climbed into the van, carrying two paper bags from which there escaped an incredibly delicious aroma.

  “Hey,” Lucky said, glancing up from the less-than-inspiring view he had of the bus station lockers. From where he was parked, he could see locker number 101 through the tinted van windshield and through the bus station window. It wasn’t the most inconspicuous surveillance setup, but it was better than sitting on the grimy plastic bus-station chairs, in full view of anyone driving by. “I didn’t expect you guys for another few hours.”

  “Man cannot live on M&Ms from the candy machine alone,” Wes said, digging through the bags. “So we brought you this celebratory meal from Texas Stan’s.”

  With a flourish, Wes handed Lucky a large container of Texas Stan’s four-alarm chili and a plastic fork.

  “Bless you, Ren. Bless you, Stimpy. What are we celebrating?” Lucky asked, taking the lid off the container. God, it smelled good.

  “Joe Cat called,” Wes reported, his mouth already filled with one of Texas Stan’s spicy beef enchiladas.

  Lucky nearly dropped the chili. “Did Shaw turn up?”

  “No,” Bob said from the back seat. “The news is good, but not that good. The captain had a message for you from your sister.”

  “Ellen?”

  “Yeah,” Wes grabbed for one of the sodas, using it to hose down the inside of his mouth. Lucky knew from experience that Texas Stan’s spicy enchiladas were only slightly less hot than the chili. “She called to tell you she’s getting married.”

  Lucky laughed at that. “Yeah, right, Skelly. Very funny. What did she really want?”

  “We’re serious,” Bobby said. “Ellie’s engaged. I called her from the motel. She sounds really happy.”

  “The guy’s some college geek,” Wes reported.

  They weren’t kidding. Lucky carefully put down his container of food. “Ellen’s not old enough to get married. She’s only…what?” He had to do the math. “Hell, she’s barely twenty-two.”

  “My little sister, Colleen, is twenty-two.” Wes took another bite of his enchilada. “Ann frr’s hrr errrurr mmrrr.”

  “Colleen is old enough to get married,” Bobby countered, completely able to understand him even with his mouth full. “You
guys look at your little sisters and see ten-year-olds. It’s like you’re stuck in a time warp. Other guys look and see two very hot, very full-grown women.”

  Wes swallowed and turned to face the back seat. “Colleen? Hot? No way. Last time I was home, she skinned her knee skateboarding. She’s the world’s oldest living tomboy—she doesn’t even know she’s a girl. Thank God.”

  “Oh, come on, Skelly.” Bobby shifted so that he was sitting forward and the entire van shook. “Remember when we visited her at college? Guys like her. A lot. They were always dropping in to her dorm room, remember?”

  “Yeah, she’s a great mechanic and they came asking her to fix their cars,” Wes countered. “That’s not the same thing.”

  “There’s no way I’m letting Ellen get married,” Lucky said grimly.

  “Maybe she’s pregnant,” Wes said helpfully. “Maybe the geek knocked her up.”

  Lucky glared at him. “You should consider a new career writing greeting cards, Skelly. You always know exactly the right thing to say.” He glowered at Bobby in the rear view mirror. “Why aren’t you eating?”

  “He’s having dinner again with the supermodel.”

  Bobby smiled serenely. “Her name is Kyra.”

  “I hate you,” Wes said. “First you make me stop smoking, now this.”

  “Trade you Kyra for Colleen.”

  Wes snorted. “Yeah, sure you would.” He turned to Lucky. “I got E-mail today from a SEAL went through BUD/S training with the Priest.”

  Ellen was getting married. Lucky shook his head in disbelief.

  “Actually,” Wes expounded, “this guy—Ruben is his name—he went through BUD/S, but the Priest—Mitch—didn’t.”

  That caught Lucky’s attention. “Come again?”

  “Apparently, Mitch didn’t make it through BUD/S his first time around. It took him two tries.” Wes paused and noisily sucked down half of a milk shake. “It’s a great story, Lieutenant. You’re going to love this.”

  Lucky just looked at him. Waiting.

  Wes was unperturbed as he searched for a napkin and delicately wiped his mouth. “Ruben told me in this E-mail that the Priest made it nearly all the way through BUD/S—no complaints, not a lot of talking at all. Just silently getting the job done.”

  “Unlike those of us sitting here who talked nonstop through basic training,” Bobby interjected.

  “I’m not talking to you anymore,” Wes said. “I hate you, remember? You’ve let a supermodel come between us.”

  Lucky closed his eyes. “Skelly.”

  “Yeah. So it’s the morning before Hell Week starts, right? And the Priest wakes up, and he’s got the flu. Raging fever, intense intestinal distress. I mean, he’s sick as a dog. Sicker. He knows if any of the instructors find out, he’ll get pulled and stuck in the hospital.”

  Wes finished the rest of his milk shake. “So,” he continued. “He keeps his mouth shut. At least he tries to. But he gets pulled when he starts vomiting blood. Dead giveaway he’s got some medical problem. They try to talk him into ringing out, but he refuses. They drag him to the hospital, but as soon as they leave him alone, he breaks out of his room. He goes out the window—and this is with a hundred-and-four-degree fever—and rappels to the ground from the fifteenth floor.

  “Ruben told me the Priest just showed up back in Coronado. Middle of the night. He just rejoins his boat team as if he’s never been gone. He can barely stand, but there he is. ‘Ready for duty, sir!’ This time, the instructors figure they’ll just wait for him to keel over, but when he falls, he crawls. The tough little sonuvabitch doesn’t stay down. So they promise him he can start over again with the candidates from the next cycle, but that’s not good enough for the Priest. He won’t quit. They end up having to knock him out with a shot of Valium. And when he wakes up, Hell Week’s over.”

  “Oh, man.” Lucky couldn’t imagine going through Hell Week, that awful endurance test while stricken with the flu.

  “He came through the next cycle,” Wes said, “head of the class.”

  For several long moments, they sat quietly.

  “Wherever he is,” Bobby said, breaking the silence, “I hope he’s okay.”

  Then Wes spoke, voicing aloud the question running through Lucky’s mind. “Is it possible for a guy like that to sell out?”

  “No way,” Bobby said.

  Lucky wasn’t so sure.

  Chapter 7

  Becca took a glass of champagne from the waiter’s tray, smiling her thanks, trying her hardest to pay attention to Harry Cook as he talked about his granddaughter’s first ballet recital.

  Harry was a sweet man—generous with his millions, too—and Becca had met four-year-old Lila during last year’s Children’s Hospital fund-raising picnic. The story Harry was telling was amusing, but Becca was finding it hard to focus.

  She turned her back on the arched entrance that led into the restaurant from the lobby, determined not to spend the evening waiting for Mish to show.

  Or not to show.

  That was tonight’s question.

  She took a sip of champagne, forcing herself to slow down, to breathe. She usually didn’t drink during these parties. After all, she was being paid to attend, to schmooze, to reinforce Justin Whitlow’s contacts with the well-to-do population of northern New Mexico.

  But tonight, she needed the champagne.

  She laughed with everyone else as Harry finished his story, as he did what had to be a rather accurate imitation of Lila’s final bow, but then she broke away from the group, heading toward the door to the Sidewinder’s central outdoor plaza.

  The night air was much warmer than the relentless chill of the restaurant’s air-conditioning. And since the long dress she was wearing exposed all of her arms and most of her back, she welcomed the heat.

  There were only a few people outside, and Becca was glad to take a breather from the crowd. She sipped her champagne, gazing up at the strings of festive lights that decorated the plaza, dancing in the gentle breeze.

  Mish wasn’t going to come.

  Even if he did, he would probably be too embarrassed to enter the high-class restaurant in his jeans and T-shirt.

  The moon was a sliver in the sky—far more beautiful than the strings of lights. And the breeze carried the scent of flowers—proof that nature could provide far more enticing decorations for a party than even the chic Sidewinder.

  Becca looked up at the moon, refusing to wonder if she would ever see Mish again.

  If she didn’t, so be it. He’d been around when it had been most important—to save Chip’s life. If she had to choose between that and his appearance tonight at this party, well, that was a no-brainer. As much as she liked Mish, she’d take Chip, alive and well, any day. And even though Mish wasn’t going to show, well, at least the possibility of his appearance had inspired her to wear this dress.

  It had been hanging in the back of her closet for years, hanging in the back of her mother’s closet since before Becca had been born. Her great-grandmother had made it during the 1930s. It was elegant and graceful and undeniably sexy. Blatantly sexy.

  Definitely not something she wore every day.

  She heard the door to the restaurant open, like a portal to a different world. The music and laughter was momentarily louder before it closed again, shutting out all but the heartiest laughter and the faint kitchen sounds of dishes clinking together.

  Becca glanced up to see a man in a dark suit stop to get his bearings, still standing by the door. He wasn’t Mish—his hair was too short, and besides, the suit looked expensive. She looked away. But she could see him from the corner of her eye as he took in the bar on the far side of the plaza, the couples talking quietly in the shadows, the strings of lights, the flowers, the trees, the moon.

  He looked at the moon for a long time.

  She turned her back to him before he could glance at her a second time.

  One thing about this dress, it made men take long second glances.
And some men even were bold enough to approach her.

  Sure enough, she could hear his footsteps on the bricks, coming closer. He’d started walking toward her.

  Becca turned toward the door, ready to nod politely on her way back into the restaurant and…

  “Sorry I’m a little late. The bus from Albuquerque had a flat.”

  Mish?

  It was. He’d gotten a haircut. And a new suit. And he was so clean-shaven, he must’ve stopped for a touch-up in the men’s room before coming outside.

  “You look incredible,” he told her, his voice nearly as velvety-soft as the night.

  “You do, too.” Her own voice was husky as well.

  He smiled crookedly, his eyes crinkling slightly at the edges. “Yeah, I cleaned up pretty well, huh?”

  She touched the lightweight wool of his jacket sleeve. “Where on earth did you get the money for this?”

  He stepped back slightly, pulling free from her grasp, putting both of his hands into his pockets. A gentle reminder. No sex. No touching. “I called my man Jeeves, had him wire me some funds from my Swiss account.”

  Becca laughed. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked. It’s none of my business.”

  “Truth is, I had some cash,” Mish told her. He’d been hoping he’d find the rest of his clothes and his other belongings—books, at least, because surely he had books—at the address listed in his personnel file. But he’d gone all the way to Albuquerque only to find that the address had been a fake. The street existed, but not the number. It had been a business district, filled with rundown pawnshops and seedy topless bars. Everything about it was completely unfamiliar.

  The phone number Mish had found in the file had been disconnected, as well.

  He’d spent nearly two days wandering around Albuquerque, looking for something, anything that triggered any kind of recognition.

  The closest he’d come to a flicker of memory had been when he’d gone to the mall and tried on this suit. As he slipped on the jacket and looked at himself in the mirror, he’d gotten the sense that something was wrong. He’d worn suits before, but the jacket had been different. There was something about the neckline or the collar or…He’d stared at himself in the three-way mirror until the fitting-room clerk had gotten nervous, but the answer hadn’t come to him. How could a suit jacket be different? Men’s jackets had been virtually the same for nearly a hundred years. It didn’t make any sense at all.