Guilty Pleasures

by Stella Cameron

  “Probably nothing.” This was the tough part. He wasn’t sure how someone like Polly would react to confronting an unseen force. She’d come through a near drowning without breaking— endured the attack at her condo without completely falling apart. “I need to get to Dusty’s location. I’d like you to dress—quickly—so I can leave you with Bobby.”

  The bedding rustled. He saw her put on clothes as she found them. He grabbed his jeans and pulled them on, and his T-shirt. His knife and its sheath were with his black nylon jacket, close to the door. His Sauer was just under the bed.

  “Is someone in the house?” Polly whispered. She sounded steady.

  “I don’t think so. I do think we could have trouble.”

  “I want to get to Bobby.”

  “You will. I’m going to put Rose and Nellie with you, too.”

  “Should I have a gun? I expect you’ve got—”

  “No. You don’t know how to use a gun. And you won’t need one.” He hoped to God he was right. “Ready?”

  She touched his back, and said, “Yes. Just tell me what to do.”

  As he opened the door, he saw the on/off flick of a flashlight. Dusty had arrived at the bottom of the stairs leading to the two third-floor rooms above a central gallery on the second floor.

  Nasty put Polly behind him and slipped swiftly down beside Dusty.

  “Could be nothing,” the older man said.

  “You let me go past my watch.”

  “I didn’t know wake-up calls were part of the deal these days.”

  He deserved that.

  “I heard something before the lights went out,” Dusty said.

  “That makes two of us.”

  “Someone threw the circuit. The box is in the laundry room. I left it.”

  Nasty nodded. “Good move.”

  “There’s no obvious evidence of entry, but someone came in. I’d lay odds they went straight back out.”

  “To draw us outside,” Nasty said. “Go in with Bobby, Polly. Try not to wake him up. Easier that way. Dust, I’ll stay here while you get Rose and Nellie.”

  Dusty was already on his way, keeping low to skirt the gallery that was open to the foyer below.

  “The dog doesn’t bark?” Nasty asked.

  “Usually. If a stranger comes.”

  Nasty considered. “He’s not on home ground. I guess that could make a difference.”

  “I think he’d bark if someone new was in the house.” She sounded relieved, and he hoped she’d stay that way.

  “Good. Go in there now.” He turned the door handle silently and opened just enough space for her to slip through. He caught her arm and bent to kiss her mouth. “This is probably a false alarm.”

  “I love you, Xavier.”

  He smiled. “I know. The feeling’s mutual. Always will be.”

  “Please don’t go outside.”

  Another foreign experience. Someone worried about him for other than practical reasons. “Spike didn’t bark,” he said lightly. “Don’t worry. I’ll just check around to be sure.”

  “Someone turned off the lights.”

  “Maybe they were never on.”

  “Damn it, Xavier, I’m not a kid. You and Dusty just talked about the lights going out, and the circuit being thrown.”

  He would need to keep a few steps farther ahead with this woman. “Okay. Sorry. Where are they?” he asked Dusty, who returned without Rose or Nellie.

  “Won’t budge,” he said irritably. “Fool women. You can’t reason with ’em. Rose says she and Nellie are staying put in her rooms. We’re to let them know when this foolishness is over.”

  “Shit,” Nasty said with feeling. “You’ll have to stay central. I’ll be as quick as I can. Polly—in and close the door.”

  “No.” Panic was there now. “You can’t go outside. How do you know what’s there?”

  “He doesn’t,” Dusty said for him. “This is just precaution. A check around doors and windows inside to make sure there’s been no entry. A—”

  “No need to go into the minor details,” Nasty said quickly, afraid Polly would freak out.

  “There certainly is a need. Dusty’s already established that someone came in, Xavier.”

  Dusty made no attempt to stifle a snicker.

  Nasty said, “We’re wasting time.”

  “Then he’ll make a circle around the outside of the house. And when he comes back, no one will know he’s moved—inside or outside. Will they, Xavier?”

  “His ankle,” Polly said. “He doesn’t do this sort of thing anymore.”

  Nasty swore under his breath. “That’s enough, Dust. Save the fun for later. Think of soft landings, Polly. And tennis shoes. I’m not a complete cripple yet.”

  He left visualizing the expression on her face and drawing satisfaction from knowing he’d at least got the color right. He didn’t need to see the blush to be sure it was there.

  The inside check was accomplished rapidly and without incident. Rather than a door, he chose a window in the pantry as his route outside. The chance that he was dealing with professionals was better than fifty-fifty. Still, he had nothing to lose by hoping whoever was playing unpleasant games was too green to expect a man to crawl through a window rather than open a door and walk out.

  He landed softly behind bushes in the bed that ran along the back of the house. The hood on his jacket unfurled to cover most of his face, as well as his head. With the collar closed tightly, he was virtually invisible. For once he blessed the rain that turned earth at his feet to mud. Bracing himself on the side of the house, he scuffed the slimy mix over his white tennis shoes.

  No identifiable noise reached him, other than the steady drum of rain on the glass roof of a nearby greenhouse, and the shifting of leaves and branches—and small life—in trees and bushes.

  If someone was waiting for him to make a move, they’d be in close. He had no way of guessing what location they’d chosen—or even if they were still in the area. He did what he’d been trained to do in similar circumstances—crouched and moved swiftly, not thinking about percentage chances anymore, just moving and making repeated visual checks behind him.

  The rain grew even heavier.

  Distant lightning swelled in a brief silver haze and faded quickly. A faint crackle of summery thunder was a long time coming.

  He reached a back comer where trees came all the way to the house. The scent of soaked pines and mulch flooded the air.

  Nasty stumbled, and stopped. His heart pummeled his ribs. The ground was torn up here. Using even his hooded flashlight wasn’t an option. He sank to a crouch and felt the soil. Practice allowed him to find what he’d expected: footprints. But not a single set. More than one man had tramped—recently—in the dirt beneath a window into a small storage room. He looked up. The window wasn’t open.

  Whoever had been here had either made it inside and closed the window—or left. He had to know which, and the only way to find out was by using the light.

  With the Sauer in his right hand, he took the flashlight down to ground level and switched it on. A brief swing of the beam along the side of the house and back told him the story.

  One intruder had come, gone in through the window, and left. That would be the man throwing the circuit to get Nasty outside. That was a given now.

  The guy had started away, but someone else had shown up, bringing him back. There’d been a scuffle, and the two had left, one man pulling the other.

  Straightening, he slid the switch off almost immediately and stared out at the wall of trees.

  “Yo, Nasty.”

  He whipped around, gun braced before the whisper completely registered.

  “Friend,” Roman Wilde murmured. “Easy.”

  Nasty lowered the gun, and the man he’d trust with his life— and anyone else’s—arrived beside him. They stood silent, shoulder to shoulder.

  Dusty would have some fast talking to do. Later. Nasty used the flashlight again, and turned it off aga
in the instant he’d traced the marks in the earth for Roman to see.

  Without a word, they put distance between them and struck out into the trees. Radio contact would be nice, but Nasty didn’t have to see his friend to feel his presence, and to know he did exactly what must be done.

  Civilians didn’t do dark real well. Another point in favor of a pro. He narrowed his eyes. The smell was different, but he felt again the brush of other plants, vine-draped plants, on his skin. There had been no light that night either.

  Another sizzling stroke of lightning struck—much closer. For an instant a suggestion of a glow penetrated the trees. It faded before thunder rushed in its wake.

  Nasty crept onward, placing each foot, heel and toe, progressing so slowly his nerves jumped with tension. They could use an entire damn unit.

  The next ripple of lightning came. For several seconds white light painted a path between the trees, over fallen trunks and jagged snags. And it touched something that moved.

  Then all was blackness again.

  Thunder roared, so close the ground trembled.

  Nasty pulled his left sleeve high enough to expose the handle of his knife and stroked the trigger of the Sauer. Someone was ahead of him, and it wasn’t Roman. Roman wouldn’t be upright and in motion when lightning hit.

  As swiftly as he dared, Nasty went forward. The lightning had provided a rough mental map of the immediate terrain. He reached the first fallen tree he’d seen and touched rough, wet bark. He wouldn’t fire first. Neither would Roman. But if the mark gave one tiny excuse, the rules became the ones Nasty knew best. He unsheathed the knife and went forward with it in his left hand. On the night he’d lost his job, pain and shock had also cost him his gun. His knife had become a precious companion he had treated with utmost respect ever since.

  He stumbled over something and flailed.

  An arm surrounded his neck, clamped it in the crook of a steel-hard elbow, and jerked him backward. “No sound.” The man behind him whispered against Nasty’s hood. “Very quiet, very careful. No problems.”

  The cold clarity he needed slid around his brain. No time for cursing whatever wrong step he’d taken getting to this point. He dropped his right hand to his side.

  “No,” the voice said, at the same instant as unyielding metal slammed into the back of Nasty’s hand.

  He kept his grip on the gun. The second blow knocked it free.

  “Better,” he was told softly. “We will move backward a few steps, then turn to your left.”

  There had to be a reason this joker wasn’t putting a bullet through his head. He allowed himself to be guided back a step, another, another. Then he lifted a foot and brought the heel down on the toes of the man who held him.

  A muffled cry escaped and the grip on his neck loosened a fraction.

  Nasty twisted around and tossed his knife from his left to his right hand.

  “No!”

  Darkness collected and changed shape. A head and shoulders came at Nasty, connected with his belly. He grappled and cocked his arm, ready to strike with the knife.

  The other man dropped. Nasty heard him roll and made a circle, knife singing through the air as he turned.

  “Not again,” came the whisper. “Only once for that. Now you pay.”

  He’d been right. This was Bogota payback time.

  The sound of an engine startled him. It grew louder, then cut out. A car had driven up the driveway.

  Again he swung around.

  A forced, rasping whisper, “It’s time. Long, long past time,”

  The memories broke over him. “It’s time, friend. We’ve been waiting for you—and now we have you.” And there’d been gunfire. And his ankle exploded.

  Low to the ground, the shadows coalesced. He lunged, but the shape dissolved.

  A single, yipping yell sounded, and the night burst to life. The thud of feet, the rush of wind and rain against a powerful body.

  Roman had closed in.

  The fight was short and vicious. It stopped when Nasty fell over what he knew was a body. “He’s down,” he shouted. “Light, Roman.”

  A beam hit what lay at Nasty’s feet.

  They both dropped to their knees.

  A man lay on his side, his head turned into the mud as it shouldn’t have been able to turn.

  “Shit,” Roman muttered.

  Nasty looked at him, and then at the trees on all sides. He took his flashlight and searched.

  Lightning broke again, farther away again.

  Another crackle came. Branches breaking. Crashing as someone made an escape.

  “Shit!” Roman said, not lowering his voice this time. “The bastard got away.” He looked at the man on the ground. “And he left us a present. This is the one who got dropped by the house. D’you know him?”

  Supporting the lolling head, Nasty rolled the body to its back. A wound opened the neck from ear to ear. With a gloved hand, Roman wiped mud from the face.

  Nasty focused his beam. He glanced up at Roman. “Poor creep.”

  Roman raised one dark, arched brow.

  “I don’t think our present is going to help us much,” Nasty told him. “Something tells me this guy’s luck has always been bad. Mostly his own fault. Allow me to introduce you to Bobby Crow’s dad—Sam Dodge.”

  Polly waited until Dusty, swearing so volubly she was grateful Bobby was deeply asleep, clumped downstairs in the wake of Rose and Nellie. At the sound of a car arriving, Rose had come from her room talking serenely about how quickly “the dear sheriff” could be relied upon to respond to her when she called. That had been minutes after Polly heard Dusty talking to a man she hadn’t heard coming up the stairs. She assumed he’d come up the stairs since he’d suddenly been there, speaking in low tones, using a word that stood out from the rest— Nasty. Then the conversation had stopped. She’d decided the second man had left.

  Now they were all somewhere downstairs, and they would soon come looking for her and Bobby. They’d find Bobby and take good care of him. If Nasty had come back, he’d have checked on her. That meant he was still out there. Polly wouldn’t wait any longer to make sure he was safe.

  She told Spike to stay, slipped from the room, and closed the door softly behind her. Swiftly, she made her way to back stairs that led down to a passage outside the kitchen. In some earlier age the servants must have slept in the third-floor bedrooms and used these stairs to go about their duties.

  The kitchen was in darkness. Rose and the others would be in the living room. With the big flashlight from Bobby’s room in hand, Polly let herself outside and flinched when rain beat her face.

  She’d heard thunder but hadn’t even thought about rain. Her T-shirt was instantly soaked, and her jeans. Water dripped from her hair down her neck.

  If she called out, the sheriff and Dusty might hear and try to stop her.

  Nasty was out there somewhere, and she refused to allow him to be alone—risking his own safety because he was worried about her.

  The floodlights could have gone off for any number of reasons. That’s what they’d decide. And it had to be Festus who’d found out where she was and managed to locate a telephone number.

  Festus was sick. He was not a life-and-death threat.

  The police were in the house. Even a crazy man would run away now.

  “Xavier!” Polly started forward, shining her light first one way, then the other. “Xavier, where are you?” She didn’t care how mad he got at her. There was no way she’d allow him to risk falling down in the dark because of her.

  He could hurt his ankle again.

  “Xavier! Where are you? The police are here—they’ll want to talk to us.” She stepped gingerly on mushy grass. He could be anywhere out here. “Rose called the sheriff. He’s with her now, and Nellie. Dusty’s there, too.”

  She’d go to the front of the house.

  “Stay where you are.”

  Nasty. Relief made her weak, and giggly. He wasn’t far away—in the t
rees. She trained the flashlight on tall, straight trunks, and ran. “You stay where you are. You’ll fall over something in there. Wait till I get to you. I’ve got a flashlight.”

  “Do not come any nearer.”

  She stopped, frowned, set her lips firmly, and carried on. “Stop giving me orders. And playing these silly games. You’re going to have an accident.”

  The rumble of more than one male voice reached her, but she refused to listen. Scrambling, climbing over fallen limbs, she hurried in the direction from which she’d heard Nasty speak.

  When she saw him he wasn’t alone. He came toward her with a tall, dark-haired man beside him.

  “Who is he?” Her voice rose to a silly squeak, but she didn’t care. “Xavier?”

  “Xavier?” the other man repeated, smiling. “This must be your Polly.” He was exceedingly good-looking.

  “I told you to stay with Bobby.” Xavier closed in on her, his face set in unkind lines. “What are you doing out here?”

  “The police are in the house. So is Dusty. Bobby’s safe. I had to be sure you were safe, too.”

  “You should have done what I told you to do.”

  She smarted. He bore down on her. The other man avoided looking directly at her. “This isn’t a naval maneuver,” Polly said when she found her voice again. “And I’m not one of your men. That means I heard your lecture on following orders, but it doesn’t apply to me. Who is this man?”

  “Roman,” Nasty said. “Roman Wilde. A friend of mine. We were SEALs together.”

  She studied Roman Wilde’s face and concluded he wasn’t just handsome, he was formidably handsome. “Don’t they allow any ugly people in the SEALs?”

  The two men looked at each other. It was Roman who , laughed first. “She’s funny. I think you found a keeper, Nasty. I always knew you would in the end.”

  Her light picked up something else, something on the ground a few yards behind Nasty and Roman. Someone. “Who is it?” she asked in a tiny voice. “Is he dead?”

  Nasty strode to put an arm around her shoulders. “This isn’t for you to deal with, sweetheart. I’ll get you back to the house. It’s just as well the sheriff’s here. It’ll save us some time.”

  “Who is it?” She clutched his sleeves. “It’s someone I know, I isn’t it?”