“Same old, buddy. But I got word the pressure is lifting. You?”
“Haven’t got a hint, Randy. Nothing. She might have just stopped around here to call Sandra.” Dean heard the desperation leaking over in his own voice.
“There’s always Sandra, Dean. It’s been a month. Those two won’t stay quiet for too much longer. A day never passed without contact, right?”
Dean supposed Randy was correct. It spoke to Amy’s stubbornness and determination to avoid him though, that she hadn’t called Sandra before. She was protecting her friend, ever loyal. Loyalty. Right. He should take a course. Although loyalty was earned, not learned.
“I’m heading back to eat at the mall where she called from. I’ve caught all the stores, but I want to try a couple restaurants and the housing across the street after dinner.”
“Want a crew to help? They can be there in a few.”
“I have to do this myself, Randy. It’s not about sending my men to bring Amy home. She’s not part of the business.” And she’d hate him worse. “And Randy? Give some thought that shit keeps descending whenever I’m distracted by my woman. First Burnett pulls that shit, then I’m taking some time away to fucking rejuvenate and the law takes notice.”
Silence. “Fuck. I’ll think on it, Dean. Later.” Randy hung up.
Dean contemplated the stereotypical hotel carpet for a couple of minutes. Like any cop, he didn’t like the smell of coincidences. But he would finish the search before heading back. If he couldn’t get this done he’d blanket the area next time she called, and they locked down her location. Maybe he should have a crew on standby. And just how desperate was he? That desperate. He’d make it happen.
****
“Sure. Tall, built, blonde, right? Sweet girl, too.” The skinny bartender polished another glass and slid it into the rack above his head, apparently oblivious to Dean coming to attention like a bird-dog on point. A lethal bird-dog. “She looked after Francine real good. The old girl’d been sick for awhile and wanted to kick lose, drink too much. Blondie wouldn’t let her, but in a really nice way.”
Tiny black spots swirled in Dean’s vision as he forgot to breathe. Not possible. Couldn’t be this easy. He focused. Casually, he said, “So she took good care of Francine?” Dean tried the name out on his tongue. Francine.
“Yup. Fran and her girls come in about once a month for lunch. They raise a little hell but it’s kinda mild, ya know what I mean. Blondie’s first time. Think she drove Francine in that old Merc.”
“Know where I might find Francine?” Dean knew he wasn’t doing casual well any longer, and the bartender really looked at him.
“What’d you say you wanted Blondie for?”
Dean could feel the attention they were drawing, a couple of wait staff looking their way, the few other patrons becoming interested, wanting their beverages. He hurried to explain, lowering his voice. He had no clout here and finesse was part of who he could be anyhow. “Blondie’s name is Amy. She went missing a few weeks ago and her family and friends got worried.”
“ID.” Not a request, the bartender’s brow furrowing with apparent disbelief.
Dean worked a card out of his wallet, having yet to pay for his beer. He pushed it across the bar.
“Investment and Insurance Services. What you do?”
“Real estate and consulting, business opportunities and research.” Not a lie, really not even stretching the truth. “Amy was part of the organization.” Again, not a lie. Dean strove to look reputable and harmless, no small feat for a six-foot-four, two hundred and twenty pound man with lean muscle and a face that told a story of never backing down from the hard knocks of life. He worked hard at not clenching his fists.
“She looked okay to me. Maybe she’s making a different life. Doesn’t want to be found.”
Suppressing the urge to throttle the other man, Dean leaned back on the stool. “If she’s okay, that’s good to know. She doesn’t want to return to her old life, I’ll take the message back and leave it alone.” Fat chance. “But I need to see her in person to be certain. In case someone is influencing her.”
After an eternity of polishing, the man spoke, thin face thoughtful. “I don’t know where Francine is at just now.” He raised the cloth at Dean’s instant protest. “I know Martha though, and I’ll give her a call.”
Dean suffered through the stereotypical greetings of the phone call to Martha, and the social drivel that followed. Apparently Martha knew her way around a wine bottle or two. Shades of his mother. The receiver was shoved his way as the bartender went to serve someone else, and a querulous voice spoke loudly in his ear. “Francine went on a holiday. She’ll be back tomorrow. Can’t leave the motel too long, even if she’s got good help and the weather’s the pits where they’re at. So they’re on the road. Tell Bobby your number and he’ll pass it along to me tomorrow.” A hollow click signalled Martha’s unavailability.
Gritting his teeth, Dean considered his options. He could probably persuade Bobby to give him Martha’s address and find out where this Francine lived, but that would draw more attention and waste time. A patient man when it suited him, Dean had reached his limit, what with the possibility of finding Amy so close. He pulled the phone closer, straining the long cord to its limit, and punched in the numbers to retrieve Martha’s number while Bobby’s attention was elsewhere. When the bartender returned, Dean decided not to leave his card, sliding it across the polished surface of the bar, flicking it into a pocket. No point in giving anyone a direction to look if he found Amy tonight and returned her home. A rescue attempt by a bunch of old ladies was just bizarre enough to attract the wrong kind of attention and bring down trouble. He was just relieved Amy was all right and had obviously fallen in with kind people, to quote her in absentia.
A reverse directory check on his phone found Martha Clarke almost instantly. Dean hustled out to the SUV, his dinner order forgotten. His strides slowed as he considered cutting out the middleman. He called Randy.
“Do a search for mom-and-pop motels, hotels in Santa Rosa. Look for the name Francine.” Randy had access to a variety of computers and search engines simultaneously and Dean wanted his expertise. He forced himself to sit stoically, drumming his fingers on the wheel, staring at nothing in particular, marshalling his strength. His cell rang.
“Francine Bower nee Cavers and Harold Bower. Co-owners of The Restaway Inn on Provencher and LaValle, phone number 707-555-7378. You found her?”
“Think so. I’m heading over there right now.”
“Dean?”
“What, Randy?”
“Watch your step with that girl.”
Dean clicked off without comment. Randy didn’t need to worry. Dean would do right by Amy, do what was in her best interest. She might not agree with him, but he wasn’t leaving her to cope, alone. His bag was back in the hotel, but there was nothing in it he needed, and the credit card he used to guarantee the room would be charged and that would be the end of it. He programmed the GPS and pulled out of the lot to go get his woman.
Chapter Twelve
Amy sat tall and stretched, easing off the stool Harold thoughtfully provided for her behind the counter. All expected guests had already checked in and the motel was full up. No special requests, and lots of approving comments about the wireless. Check out was eleven, with no one asking for a late one, and tomorrow’s reservations were light anyhow. She frowned, then remembered it was mid-week and there might be a few drive-ups. Reaching over to the switch on the wall, Amy flicked the No Vacancy sign on and looked to ensure the old neon lit up. A dark SUV pulled up to the curb and idled, but no one got out. Probably somebody making a phone call.
She’d been staying in her boss’s suite since they left, in order to respond to any guest calls or arrivals later in the evenings and right now she wanted her dinner, leftover lasagne from lunch with a spinach salad. And a tall glass of milk.
Hopefully, everyone was buttoned down for the night. She expected Harold
and Francine back tomorrow afternoon, the couple cutting their vacation a little bit short because of the weather. Francine apparently took the incessant rain personally, and Harold’s muttered imprecations were audible in the background when the older woman called.
The old computer was in sleep mode and Amy opened the little drawer holding the keys to the front door. She tended to lock up around this time. Guests could use the buzzer or call the desk if they needed anything. Both could be heard in the living quarters, and there was a phone extension available in their kitchen. Tired beyond belief, she turned, making her way around the counter to the door when it opened, the bell announcing the arrival of someone who hadn’t read the no vacancy sign. Damn it. Now she’d have to point them in the direction of other lodging. She pasted a smile on her face and saw him.
Amy’s breath caught in her throat, her sex drew up, her belly clenched and her head swam. She quit cataloguing her reaction to Dean as his tall, muscular form filled the doorway, shades of that fateful day. But his face was quite different. A certain watchfulness layered his features but his eyes were that calm, clear gray of tenderness, something he showed only her. Amy backed up, slowly, as if from an unpredictable wild animal until her back came up against the wall.
“Amy.” Dean crossed the room toward her, moving slowly, but with purpose. It rolled off him in waves. She shook her head against an overwhelming sense of powerlessness before he was on her, pulling her tightly against him, fisting one of his big hands in her hair. Pulling her head back, he stared deeply into her eyes, face descending until his mouth took hers.
She resisted with the passivity projected by shock, her thoughts swirling to finally coalesce into a moment of clarity. No! She couldn’t get away from the embrace. Dean was too strong, and he held her so tightly the button on his jacket imprinted her skin right through the fabric of her shirt. His cock swelled against her pelvis, that long, hard length a pressing reminder of his potent possession, the proof residing beneath her heart.
Pulling his lips from hers he stepped back a short pace, her lack of response apparently making his eyes narrow, the silver shade of annoyance encroaching on the tenderness. Then it disappeared with the placement of his big right palm on her abdomen. Amy bit back a moan. He knew. How could Sandra have done this to her? The betrayal made her faintly nauseous.
“What do you need to pack, sweetheart?”
“What?” His familiar scent was surrounding her, lulling her, his proximity dismantling her pathetic barriers.
“We’re going home.”
Okay. Enough. Amy drew both hands up to chest height and pushed with every bit of strength she possessed. Dean actually stepped back, enough to give her space to breathe and regroup.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“Get your shit, Amy. I’m not going to argue with you about this.”
She supposed her language would be something to throttle back on when her baby was born. Children tended to repeat what they overheard, but that was a long time off. “Fuck you, Dean. You aren’t the big man here.”
His face tightened, lips firming. Amy tore her eyes away from the seductive promise of that mouth and tried to push past him. His long arms came up and caged her against the wall.
“Don’t need to be the big man, Amy. I came to take you home and that’s what I’m doing. As for the other, we’ll get to that.”
She lost it. No excuse. She simply lost it, reacting to his arrogance and to her own impending weakness. Dean manacled her right wrist but not before her nails sliced into his cheek. He blocked the frantic lift of her knee with his thigh, using the bulk of his body to restrain her until the furious rage fueling her brief outburst subsided. Amy sagged, drained, and Dean turned with her in his arms to perch her on the stool. The furrows she’d dug on his face welled with blood and she willed nausea back, wondering how she’d ever come to do him harm. He snatched a tissue from the box on the desk and pressed it against his face to staunch the blood, but his concern was for her.
“Where can I get you something to drink?”
Shaking her head, “I don’t want anything to drink. I want you to leave me alone.”
“Not going to happen, sweetheart. We’ll pick up something on the road.”
“I. Am. Not. Going. Any. Where. With. You.”
She felt him take a deep breath, and his shoulders straightened. “You want to leave your shit behind, I guess that’s your call.”
Amy struggled to contain herself and reason with an unreasonable man. “I have a job. I can’t just walk out on people who trust me.”
She had the pleasure of seeing Dean wince, although she took no real enjoyment in wielding the word like a weapon. But it was all she had.
“Francine’s coming back tomorrow or close to it. Don’t deny it. I heard it from a reliable source. Call someone to hold the fort. Or don’t. But we’re leaving. You don’t want me or any of my crew around these nice folks.”
Her breath sawed in and out of her lungs at the not so subtle threat. This was not happening. For sure Harold and Francine didn’t need the shit Dean could bring just with his presence. She tried to waylay him. “We should talk about this.”
“No dice, sweetheart. We’ll talk when you’re home, where you can’t run.”
“That’s not your call, Dean. You threw me out. Threatened me. You didn’t stop to consider—”
“And I regret that, more than you’ll ever know. I’ll make it up to you. Now, last chance, Amy.”
“Did I stutter? Maybe I did, because you aren’t hearing me. I am not going back with you. Don’t you fucking push me.”
His big body tensed further, and far different emotions cracked the arrogant façade. “Amy. Please. I’m not going to go away. If you know anything, you know I’m telling you where I stand.”
And
She did know. He’d be in her face—and Francine and Harold’s—day in and out. She read his intent and couldn’t stand against it. She accepted the immediate reality. There would be another opportunity, and she’d take care not to involve anyone else like the Bowers.
Harold and Francine would be home tomorrow, and she should stay to tell them, give her notice, but she couldn’t face them. What could she say? That her … boyfriend … no, that felt too simple a label for Dean. That her former … lover and man of her dreams could cause them grief by his very presence if she didn’t leave?
“All right. Let go of me. I have to make some arrangements in order to leave.” She tried not to believe that there was relief and … happiness … softening on his features.
Picking up the phone she called Joyce, aware of Dean watching her intently, listening hard, as his hand drifted over her back in a curiously comforting manner.
She steeled her body against his touch.
“A family emergency? Oh, honey. I’ll come straight over. You just put a sign up on the door telling people it’ll be about thirty minutes and get yourself going. I’ll stay and see if my niece will help with the rooms—oh, listen to me carrying on, thinking out loud. I’ll tell Francine tomorrow and you come back as soon as you can. Drive safe.”
Amy numbly set the receiver back in the charger, wondering when she’d become such a facile liar, and looked at Dean’s handsome face, the scoring of her fingernails marring his cheek.
“Done? Where’s your stuff?” Impatience colored his tone, but she could feel the tension, as though he was questioning himself.
“I’m in Unit One.” He was once again an insurmountable force, like the tide, inflexible, wearing. Amy wanted to surrender, let him take charge and carry her along with him, take care of her and their child. It seemed she had no will and that infuriated her, stiffening her spine. He didn’t trust you! And he won’t trust you again. He shadowed her while she locked up and turned off lights, attaching the little sign Joyce suggested to the door, right above where the hours of operation were indicated. His action made her angrier. They met no one during the short walk to her room but she continued
to catalogue possible opportunities to circumvent him. None readily occurred.
Emptying the closet and dresser, folding her paltry belongings into a small pile on the bed, setting her toiletries on top, took such little time. Dean pulled the empty bag from the trash can and held it while she placed her belongings inside. Bogs’ glass eyes blinked up at her from the depths. And wasn’t that a reminder of the fact of her transitory existence? Every move brought her closer to hopeless despair but she refused to cry. The weak part of her, her heart, urged her to let go but her pride shrieked in outrage. Pretty hard to have a relationship without trust. She shoved her laptop into her purse and made to put the strap over her head.
“I’ll carry that, Amy. And the bag.”
Goddamn him. He wasn’t leaving her an out. Even if she managed to run, she’d have nothing to fall back on. She passed her purse over, mute with outrage and he put it beside the bag of clothes.
“Use the facilities, sweetheart. We won’t be making any rest stops.” His voice was gentle, probably because he was getting his own way. She couldn’t let herself soften.
Stepping into the bathroom, Amy closed the door, forcing herself to shut it quietly, without fanfare. She wasn’t wasting an ounce of precious energy. She’d need it all. After washing her hands, she placed her hands on the counter and stared into the mirror. A flushed face reflected back, the purple iris of her eyes nearly eclipsed by the wide pupils. She saw resolve and swallowed hard, pushing everything else aside. A survivor. Dean had no idea, although she once thought he had understood. She pushed off and turned to open the door, stepping through, avoiding his sharp stare. Fuck him.
“Give me your hand, sweetheart.” Oh, the endearments. Trying to make his dominance more palatable. Fuck him. She hid her hands behind her back, a childish gesture and as futile.
“I’m not going to risk you acting out on the way to the vehicle. Give me your hand.”
The feel of his big, calloused palm wrapping around her much smaller one was sufficient enough for her body to awaken yet again, remembering his touch. She hated her response.
Forever (Eternity #1) Page 20