by Cindi Myers
She wanted to believe him. He sounded so calm and certain. So reassuring. “I’m scared to go back to sleep,” she said. “Scared of the dreams.”
“You need to rest.” He looked at the clock beside the bed. It showed 3:19 a.m., though it seemed days since she’d gotten off the bus in Durango. So much had happened.
He reached to turn off the light again and she grabbed his wrist. “Please.”
“You want me to leave the light on?”
With the light on the chances of either one of them getting more sleep would be less. And she needed him alert and ready for action tomorrow. Or later today, actually. But the thought of facing the darkness again unsettled her. “Maybe you could just...lie here beside me.” She looked away as she spoke. He probably thought she was trying to come on to him; men always thought that. “Just lie here, nothing else,” she added. “I’d feel safer that way.”
He looked past her to the pillow on the other side of the bed. “All right.” He got up and walked around the bed, then stretched out on top of the covers. “Will you cut the light out now?” he asked.
She reached up and switched off the lamp. The weight of his body made the mattress dip toward him. If she relaxed even a little, she’d probably slide down toward him. “You should get a blanket,” she said. “You’ll be cold.”
He reached over and pulled the spread from the bed closest to the door. “I’ll be fine now,” he said. “Get some sleep.”
She closed her eyes and tried to do as he’d said, but the awareness of him next to her kept her tense. She lay rigid, trying not to move or breathe, waiting for morning.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, long after she was sure he’d fallen asleep.
You’re what’s wrong, she could have said. I want you here and I don’t want you here. “I don’t know,” she said. “So much has happened.”
“You’ve been through a lot,” he said. “Too much.”
“How do you deal with it?” she asked. “I mean, people shooting at you. Having to shoot other people.”
“I try to stay focused on what’s important.”
“What’s important,” she repeated. Carlo was the only thing that was really important to her. “Do you have a family? Kids?” She knew so little about him.
“No family. No kids. My parents are still alive, but they retired to Florida. I don’t see them a lot.”
“So it’s just you.”
“I have a sister. She’s in Denver, so I see her as much as I can.”
“That’s nice.” She’d always wanted a sister or brother, someone who knew her and all about her life and loved her anyway. Unconditionally. At least, that was what she imagined having a sibling would be like. “No girlfriend?” She wished she could take the question back as soon as she asked it. She didn’t want him thinking she was interested in him that way, not with him lying next to her in bed like this.
He was silent a long moment before answering. “This kind of job is hard on relationships.”
“Life is hard on relationships.” At least, the life she knew. Her parents had been together for years, but that was more out of stubbornness than anything else. The Giardinos stayed together because divorce was dangerous. Sammy had made it clear that if she tried to leave him she would lose everything—the money, Carlo and even her life.
She squeezed her eyes shut. She didn’t want to think about Sammy or the Giardinos. She needed to stay focused on the present. Right here. Right now. Talking to Patrick was calming her down. She felt as if she could say anything to him here in the dark, knowing he was close, but not touching him. Not seeing his face to read whether he was judging her or not. Just laying it all out there. “Do you ever get lonely?” she asked.
“All the time.”
“Yeah.” She licked her lips, tasting the salt from her tears. “Me, too.”
She gave up resisting then and let her body slide toward his. She lay alongside him, and rested her head in the hollow of his shoulder. He stiffened. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing,” she said. “Just...hold me. That’s all.”
Gradually, he relaxed, and brought his arm up to cradle her close. “I just...don’t want to feel so alone right now,” she said. “Don’t make a big deal out of it or anything.”
She was prepared for him to argue, or to try to take advantage. If that happened, she’d have to move away. But he merely let out a long breath. “All right,” he said. “Get some sleep.”
But she was already sinking under, lulled by his warmth and strength, and the sensation that here was a man who could protect her, the way no man ever had.
Chapter Six
Patrick woke from restless sleep, aroused and all-too-aware of the woman nestled against him. Though Stacy was fully dressed, the soft fullness of her breast pressed against his side, and her hand, palm down, lay on his stomach, tantalizingly close to the erection that all but begged for her attention.
A lesser man—one who didn’t have the job of protecting a witness in a federal case and tracking down her missing child—might have taken advantage of the situation. He could have rolled over and pulled her close and sought comfort and release for both of them in the act of lovemaking.
But even if Stacy Giardino had been open to the idea of sex with him—and considering her wariness of him the day before, that was doubtful—she was off-limits to him. She was his responsibility and his duty, not a potential lover.
Reminding himself of this didn’t do a lot to quell his desire, but it enabled him to ease himself away from her and out of bed. He pulled on his shirt, then checked his phone on the way to the bathroom. A text from his office informed him a four-wheel-drive Jeep had been left for him in the parking lot, the keys under the driver’s-side floor mat. Someone had picked up his other car from its parking place two blocks over, along with the sample of mud from Stacy’s hotel room that he’d left on the backseat.
A second text informed him that Nathan Forest had died before regaining consciousness. So far nothing new had surfaced about his identity or his connections.
The bedsprings creaked as he stepped out of the bathroom and Stacy let out a soft moan. He moved to the side of the bed. “Stacy?” he asked softly.
She blinked up at him, confusion quickly replaced by the pain of remembering all that had happened. He tensed, prepared for her to break down, but she pulled herself together and shoved herself into a sitting position. “Have you heard any news?” she asked.
“We have a new car and Nathan Forest is dead. Nothing more.”
She covered her eyes with one hand. The gash on her forehead was bruised around the edges, but it didn’t look infected. She probably should have had stitches to prevent a scar, but it was too late for that now. The cuts on her neck glowed pink against the pale skin. “How are you feeling?” he asked.
“Everything hurts.” She uncovered her eyes and looked around the room. “Is there coffee?”
A two-cup coffeemaker and supplies sat on a tray by the television. “I’ll make some,” he said. “Why don’t you take a shower?”
“Good idea.” She moved past him to the bathroom and a few seconds later he heard the water running. He started the coffee, then slipped out to the car.
The Jeep was several years old, the red paint faded and the leather seats worn. But it was equipped with a new GPS and good tires. And in the backseat he found two plastic shopping bags filled with toiletries, snacks and a change of clothes for each of them. Somebody at headquarters deserved a commendation for that.
He carried the bags inside and tapped on the bathroom door. “Stacy, I’ve got a bag here with some clothes and other things for you,” he said.
No answer. Maybe she couldn’t hear him for the shower.
He tried the knob. The door wasn’t locked. He eased the door open, keeping
his eyes averted from the steaming shower, and set the bag just inside the door, then went to pour himself a cup of coffee and wait.
When she emerged from the bathroom half an hour later, damp hair curling around her face and smelling of floral soap, he was seated on the end of the bed, the television on and turned to the local news. “I’ve never been so grateful for clean underwear and toothpaste in my life,” she said. “Where did they come from?”
“The agent who delivered the new car left them.”
“Well, he—or she—deserves a raise.” She smoothed a hand over the pink-and-white hoodie and matching yoga pants. “I’m betting it’s a woman with good taste. She even thought to include a little face powder and lipstick. I feel almost human again.”
She definitely looked like she was feeling better. The dark circles beneath her eyes had faded some, and she’d combed her hair to hide most of the gash on her forehead. In the casual clothing, with the lighter makeup, she looked younger and more vulnerable than she had when he’d first questioned her the day before.
He stood and rubbed his hand across the bristles on his chin. “I think I’ll shower and shave,” he said. “There are some snacks in that other bag there. Help yourself to breakfast.”
She glanced at the television. “Any news?”
“Nothing of interest to us.”
After a shower and shave, he dressed in the Nordic sweater and jeans he found in the bag and returned to the bedroom. The casual clothing made him and Stacy look more like tourists, or even locals. Stacy sat cross-legged on the end of the bed, eating peanut-butter crackers and staring at the television. “They just did a promo about a shootout at a Durango hotel last night,” she said. “I think that’s us.”
He sat beside her and waited through commercials for a used-car dealer, life insurance and dish detergent. Then a somber-faced reporter came on to report on an exclusive break in the story of a shooting at a local hotel. “Though the incident was at first reported to be a random mugging, we’ve since learned information that ties this killing to organized crime. The woman assaulted, who has since disappeared, was Stacy Giardino, daughter-in-law of fugitive Sam Giardino, head of one of the country’s deadliest organized crime families, who was gunned down at a vacation home near Telluride yesterday morning. Ms. Giardino was accompanied by a man who identified himself as a U.S. Marshal. The two left the hotel shortly after the shooting before local police could question them. If you see either Ms. Giardino or her companion, please contact police immediately.”
The reporter described Patrick as two inches shorter than his true height, with brown hair. The screen then flashed a photograph of Stacy that had been taken at her wedding, almost five years before. She’d worn her hair long then and looked all of sixteen, swallowed up in yards of billowing tulle and satin.
Patrick punched the remote to turn off the television. “I don’t think we have to worry about anyone tracking us down based on that description, but we shouldn’t take any chances.”
“How did they figure out who we are?” she asked. “I registered at the hotel under a fake name.”
“I used my real name,” Patrick said. “And I showed the clerk my U.S. Marshal’s ID. He probably gave that information to police and someone made the connection to Sam Giardino. Nothing is really secret anymore.”
“What are we going to do?” she asked.
“Keep moving and try not to attract attention.”
“I’m ready to leave now.” She stood and brushed crumbs from her lap. “You said we were going to Uncle Abel’s ranch?”
“That’s the plan. Do you know where it is?”
She shook her head. “Just Crested Butte. I don’t think the town’s that big. Maybe we could ask?”
“We could, but we’ll have to be careful. We don’t want to let them know we’re on their trail, if they have Carlo.”
“Do you think they do?”
“I don’t know. But it’s the only direction I can think to go at the moment. I asked my office to look for an Abel Giardino in Crested Butte, but they haven’t turned up anything yet.”
“Maybe he’s using another name. The family story was always that he didn’t want anything to do with the business.”
“That could be. I think the best thing for us to do now is to go to the town and see what we can find out.”
“How long will it take us to get there?” she asked.
“About five hours, if the weather cooperates.”
She glanced out the window. “It’s gray out there, but it’s not actually snowing.”
“We should be fine. Come on.”
They carried the supplies and their dirty clothes with them, not wanting to leave behind anything the authorities—or their enemies—could use to track them. Though not as comfortable as his Rover, the Jeep ran well, and the heater worked, blasting out heat to cut the frigid outside temperature.
They soon reached the outskirts of town and drove past empty snow-covered fields and expanses of evergreen woods and rocky outcroppings. Occasionally one or two houses sat back from the road, or small herds of horses or cattle gathered around hay that had been spread for them. “How do people live out here?” Stacy asked. “It’s so remote.”
“It is, but maybe you and I think that because we’re city people.”
“Where are you from?” she asked.
“New York. I grew up in Queens, just like you.”
She hugged her arms across her chest. “I don’t know if I like that you know so much about me. I’m not a criminal, you know. I’ve never had so much as a parking ticket.”
“I know.” At least, she hadn’t actively participated in any crimes that he knew of. “But you married into a criminal family.”
“So that makes me guilty by association?”
“In a way, it does.” Innocent, law-abiding people didn’t have intimate connections to mob criminals, in his experience.
“Was that why you followed me to Durango? Because you thought I was going to commit a crime?”
“I wondered why you were running away from the protection we offered. I wanted to see what you would do.”
“You call it protection—I call it another form of prison.” She looked away. “I’ve had enough of that, thank you.”
“Are you saying you were a prisoner of the Giardinos?”
“I might as well have been. I promised ’til death do us part, and Sammy made it clear I had to keep that promise.”
“You told me your father and his father arranged the marriage, but you never told me why you agreed to it.”
“My father owed Sam Giardino some kind of debt. I don’t know what it was, but he made it clear that I had to marry Sammy in order to save his life.”
So a wife for Sammy was the price for George Franklin’s safety? From what Patrick knew of Sam Giardino, this kind of twisted plan was his specialty. “How old were you?”
“I was nineteen. I had a dead-end job at a boutique in the mall, but I wanted to go to college. I knew the Giardinos had money. I figured I’d marry Sammy, save my dad, go to school on Sammy’s dime and divorce him after a few years. But it didn’t work out that way.”
The regret in her voice pulled at him. “No divorce.”
“And no school. Sam thought educating women was a waste of money and what he said was the law. So Sammy went to law school and I read his books and wrote his papers.”
“And you had Carlo.”
“Yes.” She picked at imaginary lint on her pants. “I love him more than anything, and I’m so glad I have him now, but I wasn’t thrilled about becoming pregnant so quickly. Of course, by then I’d figured out that even without a kid, the Giardinos weren’t going to let me leave. Once Carlo came along, I was really stuck.”
“What will you do now that Sammy is dead?”
Simple dreams. Not the plans of a criminal mind. Of course, some criminals were very good actors. They could make people believe what they wanted them to. But he didn’t think Stacy fell into that category. “What kind of law?”
“I don’t know. I’d like to do something to help women and children.”
“You’d make a good lawyer.”
“You really think so?”
“You’re calm under pressure. You’re smart and you know how to think on your feet.”
“Thanks. I really fooled you, because I don’t feel calm.” She twisted her hands together. “Do you think we’ll find Carlo?”
“We’ll find him.” He tightened his fingers around the steering wheel. He would get the boy back to his mother if it was the last thing he did.
The strains of an Alicia Keys song drifted up from the floorboards. Stacy stared at him, the color drained from her face. “My phone.”
“Answer it.” He pulled over to the side of the road, but left the engine running.
She fumbled in her purse and pulled out the phone. “Hello?”
“Put it on speaker,” he said.
She did so, and a woman’s soft, deep voice filled the Jeep. “Hello, Stacy.”
“Who is this?”
“That’s not important. But unless you want your son’s death on your hands, you’ll turn around now and go back to Durango or New York or Timbuktu, for all I care. Do that, and we’ll let you both live. Keep on the course you’re on and we’ll kill the boy and then come after you again. And this time, you won’t escape.”
“Who are you? What have you done with my son?” She raised her voice. “Carlo, are you there? Can you hear me? It’s Mommy.”
“Mommy! Mommy, where are you? I’m scared. Mommy!”
The phone went dead. Stacy covered her mouth with one hand and stared at the phone.