by Metsy Hingle
As Lily pushed her son on the swing, Michael noticed there was an edginess to her movements. And that her eyes were continuously moving, searching, watching. When she stared over in the direction of the trees where he was parked, Michael held his breath a moment and wondered if he had been spotted. Then her gaze moved past him and seemed to search some spot beyond. Had that been fear in those green eyes? he wondered.
The notion that she was in trouble—and not just for robbing her husband and kidnapping her son—gnawed at him, stirring old feelings and protective instincts he thought he’d buried a long time ago. Yet even as he tried to shake these feelings, he struggled once again with the image of the calculating woman Webster had described. He wanted to believe Lily was a coldhearted female and not this seemingly delicate woman playing with her child.
“Metsy Hingle…will delight readers with her skill at storytelling in this charmer.”
—Romantic Times on The Wager
Dear Reader,
For those of you familiar with my work, you know that many of my books are set in my own hometown of New Orleans. As you’ve probably guessed from the title, Behind the Mask takes place in that magical city during the height of the Mardi Gras season. I hope you enjoy reading this book as much as I enjoyed writing it.
One of the best things about being a writer is hearing from readers, and I’d love to hear from you. In fact, as a special thank-you, I’ve had a commemorative bookmark created just for Behind the Mask and, while supplies last, I’ll send one to each reader who writes and requests one.
I look forward to hearing from you.
Best wishes,
Metsy Hingle
P.O. Box 3224
Covington, LA
U.S.A. 70433
www.metsyhingle.com
METSY HINGLE
Behind the Mask
For the very special friends who bless my life:
Sandra and Michael Brown, Brenda and Jim Gelpi, Mary and Fred Dummett, Mary Ann and Louis Lahners, Nancy Wagner aka Hailey North, Linda Kay West aka Dixie Kane and Karen Young.
And my very best friend—my husband, Jim.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
While my name as the author is listed on this book, the finished product in your hands would not be possible were it not for the help of many people. My heartfelt thanks go to the following people for their help in bringing Behind the Mask to life:
Valerie Gray, my editor, whose guidance and patience were invaluable to me in the writing of this book.
Dianne Moggy, editorial director of MIRA Books, for her belief in me and this project.
Karen Solem, my agent, for her continued guidance and support.
Ricardo Coštales, Lancôme makeup artist and genius at finding the beauty in all women.
The incredible MIRA staff for their support.
Tara Gavin and Joan Marlow Golan at Silhouette Books for their continued support and enthusiasm.
My fans, who enable me to live my dream because they allow me to entertain them with my books.
And, as always, very special thanks go to my children and family, whose love and support enable me to spin my tales of love, hope and happily-ever-after.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
One
“I’ll pay you one million dollars to find my wife.”
“All right, Webster,” Michael Sullivan replied from the other end of the phone line. “You’ve got my attention.”
Adam Webster smiled in satisfaction at the excop’s change in attitude. “I’m glad to hear that,” he said as he gazed at the view of the Miami skyline afforded him from his penthouse suite of offices. He was glad, but he wasn’t at all surprised. He’d learned a long time ago that money talks—even to a man like Sullivan. A man who, according to his sources, had been among Houston’s best and brightest police detectives until five years ago when he’d resigned abruptly following his partner’s death. Now he hired himself out as a detective, bodyguard or bounty hunter—whatever the situation called for. The man was said to be as mean as a rattlesnake and twice as dangerous. He also reportedly had the instincts of a bloodhound when it came to tracking down someone who didn’t want to be found. It was Sullivan’s latter skill that he needed now. “You’ve been a difficult man to get in touch with, Mr. Sullivan,” Adam said, making no attempt to hide his displeasure. “My assistant tells me she’s left you several messages.”
“I’ve been out of town handling something for a client. The truth is, the only reason you caught me now is because I had to swing by to the office to pick up some reports.”
“I see,” Adam said tightly. “I’m not accustomed to being ignored, Mr. Sullivan.”
“No one’s ignoring you, Webster. But since I’m pressed for time, why don’t we dispense with my lack of good manners and you tell me why you’re willing to pay me a million bucks to find your wife.”
“Because she’s missing,” Adam said sharply, angered by the man’s insolence. Biting back his temper, he reminded himself that he needed Sullivan to find Elisabeth and the disk she’d stolen. With his temper making him edgy, he turned away from the sweep of windows and stalked over to his desk. Sitting down, he picked up the framed photo of Elisabeth. “I understand your expertise is in finding people. And, as I said, I’d like to hire you to find my wife.”
“How long has she been missing?”
“Six months.” And after six months it still gnawed at him like a festering sore. He detested mistakes, refused to tolerate them. Yet he had made a mistake in underestimating Elisabeth.
Never in a million years would he have believed that sweet, docile Elisabeth—the girl he’d fed, clothed and molded into a woman worthy to be his wife—would have had the guts to defy him. To steal the disk from his safe. To actually drug him and run away. Even more infuriating was that she’d not only gotten away from the idiots he’d hired to guard her, but that he’d doled out a considerable sum of money for private detectives, and some not-so-reputable business associates, to find her. And though they’d come close to grabbing her twice, she had still managed to escape. But not for much longer, Adam promised himself. If Sullivan was half as good as the reports on him indicated, Elisabeth’s rebellion was about to come to an end.
“Webster? You still there?”
“Yes. Yes, I’m here,” Adam repeated, dragging his thoughts back to the present. “What did you say?”
“I asked if you’ve filed a missing persons report with the police?”
“No,” Adam advised him. “I don’t want the police involved.”
“Why not?”
“Aside from the fact that I can do without the publicity, I don’t want any charges filed against my wife.”
“Last I heard, it wasn’t a crime for a woman to leave her husband,” Sullivan informed him.
“No. But stealing cash and jewelry from my safe and kidnapping my son are crimes. If I had brought the police into it, they would have issued an arrest warrant for her. I prefer to handle things myself.”
Sullivan swore.
“My sentiments exactly,” Adam told him.
“Why didn’t you say up front that she stole the kid?” Sullivan demanded.
&n
bsp; “I was about to,” Adam lied, surprised that a man who was reportedly a real hard-ass should care about the kid. He certainly didn’t give a damn about the brat. As far as he was concerned, his problems with Elisabeth all began with the kid. Not insisting that she terminate the pregnancy had been a major screwup on his part—one he would make sure didn’t happen again. But first…first he had to get Elisabeth back—and that damning disk. Did she even know what was on it? Or the damage it could cause him if it got into the wrong hands?
“How old’s your boy?”
Adam frowned at Sullivan’s question and quickly calculated how old the kid would be now. “Almost three.”
“Man, that’s got to be rough, him being so little and you missing all that time with him.”
“It is,” Adam said, because it was obvious that Sullivan expected it. “I want you to find my family for me, Mr. Sullivan. And I’d like you to start looking for them right away. If you’ll come by my office, I’ll provide you with any other information you need, and give you a retainer for your services. I’ll expect you within the hour.”
“I can’t make it today.”
Adam scowled. “Why not?” he demanded, unaccustomed to having his requests denied.
“Because I’m in the middle of another job.”
“And is this other client offering to pay you a million dollars for your services?” he countered.
“No.”
“Then I don’t see the problem. Tell your client to find someone else to handle whatever it is you’re doing.”
“That’s not the way I work,” Sullivan said, his voice cool and hard. “When I make a commitment, I honor it. I’ve got to go. I’ll give you a call when I get back and, if you’re still interested in hiring me, we’ll talk.”
When the dial tone buzzed in his ear, Adam slammed down the receiver. “Arrogant bastard,” he muttered, clenching his fists. Sullivan would pay for that, he promised. As soon as the man found Elisabeth, he would make Sullivan regret his insolence. Shoving back from the desk, he headed to the bar and poured himself a shot of bourbon. He tossed it back, felt the sting as the drink slid down his throat like liquid fire. After pouring himself another one, he grabbed the crystal tumbler and stalked across the ultramodern office on which he’d spent a small fortune. Ignoring the polished finish on the black marble desktop, he set down his glass and picked up the silver-framed picture of Elisabeth. He stared at her—the pale delicate skin, the silky blond hair, the long slender neck. Never taking his eyes from the photo, he reached for the bourbon and tossed back another swallow.
She belonged to him, he reasoned, and felt that violent punch of lust that always came with thoughts of Elisabeth. From the moment he’d first set eyes on her he’d wanted her. Even at fifteen and still an innocent, she’d left him breathless and aching. She’d been worth ten of her mother. It was the reason he’d saved her. Were it not for him, she’d have probably hooked up with some two-bit punk and been selling herself on the streets of Miami before she’d turned sixteen.
Instead he’d rescued her from her wretched life. He’d provided for her education, showered her with gifts, and when she’d been a legal adult, he had married her. Any number of women would have killed to be in her position, just for the chance to be in his bed. He knew he looked good. He took care of himself, kept his body in shape and could easily pass for a man twenty years younger. Hadn’t he heard a woman in one of his clubs call him a stud just last week? He could have had his pick of women, but he’d chosen Elisabeth.
Elisabeth.
So sweet. So soft. So young. His breath turned to a pant as he thought of taking her that first time, of thrusting himself into her warm tender flesh. And the memory made the throbbing in his groin even more painful.
He slapped down the glass and reached for the phone. “Kit, it’s Adam,” he said when the line was answered at his Miami nightclub. “How’s that new girl working out, the young blonde with the southern drawl you introduced me to last week?”
“You must mean Annabelle,” Kit said, her voice warm and sultry. “She’s working out fine. A little shy, but the customers seem to like her. She’s a fast learner and very eager to please. She should be here in a few minutes.”
“Send her up to the penthouse when she gets there,” he said, already anticipating the feel of the pretty, young girl beneath him. “And Kit, get someone else to take her shift tonight. She’s going to be busy.”
After hanging up the phone, he reached for his glass and started toward the bedroom adjoining his office to wait for Annabelle. But his gaze fell on Elisabeth’s photo again. He lifted his glass in a mock salute. “It won’t be long now, darling,” he whispered before downing the remainder of the whiskey. He would use Sullivan to find her, and once he had her and the disk back, he’d see to it that she never dared to defy him again.
As for Sullivan, the man was in need of a lesson in respect—which he personally intended to deliver.
“According to the APB on him, his name is Bill ‘The Bull’ Dozier and he’s wanted in three states for robbery, rape and murder,” the broad-shouldered state trooper told Michael.
Michael took in the scene before him—the flashing lights of the police cars and ambulance, the brightly lit front of the all-night store advertising drinks, food and gas, the dark, lonely stretch of road with cops and paramedics at a crime scene. He couldn’t help feeling a sense of déjà vu. When he saw three curiosity seekers make their way over to the storefront to look inside, he had to fight the itch to tell them to stay clear and to let the cops do their jobs. But he was no longer a cop, he reminded himself. He was a bystander and a witness.
“Man, he is one big mother,” the trooper said as two Florida state police exited the convenience store with the bald, tattooed piece of scum. Michael had interrupted him in the middle of raping the store’s female clerk.
“Yeah. But you know what they say. The bigger they come, the harder they fall.” But this one hadn’t gone down easy, Michael admitted. It had taken him more than a dozen vicious blows and two bullets to finally bring the man down. And even with two slugs in him, shackled and bleeding, the guy was still able to walk out of the store to the second ambulance that had been called to the scene. As Michael watched him being loaded into the ambulance, he thought of the terrified young woman whom he’d rescued a short time ago. Remembering her battered face and the way her clothes had been torn from her body, he clenched his bruised fingers into a fist and wished he could ram it down the monster’s throat. “How’s the girl?”
“Alive, thanks to you. She’s lucky you came along when you did. According to his rap sheet, he took a knife to the last woman when he was finished. A remote spot like this and this late at night, chances are no one would have found her for hours.”
“That’s probably what he was counting on,” Michael said. And if he hadn’t been so determined to make it back to Miami tonight, he never would have pulled off the interstate and come to the all-night store in the middle of nowhere in search of a jolt of caffeine to keep him awake. For the first time in the four days since his temper had caused him to mouth off to Webster and blow off what was a once-in-a-lifetime fee of a million bucks, Michael cut himself some slack. Had he taken Webster’s job instead of tracking down the deadbeat who’d wiped out a widow’s savings, he wouldn’t have been here to save the girl. If he were a man who believed in such things as fate, he might even think that something besides the need for coffee had made him choose this particular exit on this particular night.
But if he’d learned nothing else since seeing his partner die before his eyes five years ago, he’d learned that he, and he alone, was responsible for his choices.
“Like I said, she was lucky you decided to stop for coffee.”
But he doubted the woman was feeling particularly lucky at the moment. “What did the paramedics say? She going to be okay?”
“He did a number on her with his fists, but nothing that shouldn’t heal eventually.”
“Yeah, the local police say she had a little girl about six months ago. Apparently her husband got laid off from his job, and she decided to go back to work to help out. She took the graveyard shift because it paid more money and allowed her to be home with her baby during the day. Poor kid only started working here about two weeks ago.”
“Too bad I didn’t put a bullet between his eyes and saved the state, and her, the trouble of going through a trial.”
“You won’t get an argument from anybody here on that one,” the trooper told him. “That cut by your eye looks pretty nasty. You might want to have the paramedics take a look at it until you can get to a hospital.”
Michael tested the tender spot with his fingertips and when they came away bloody, he pressed a handkerchief to the wound. “It’s just a scratch,” Michael informed him. As it was, he’d probably be tied up for hours while the cops took his statement and filled out the paperwork. The last thing he wanted to do was get bogged down with even more red tape by going to the hospital.
“Suit yourself. But I’m going to need you to come down to the station and make a statement about what went down here tonight.”
“I know the drill,” Michael told him.
“Yeah? I thought you private dicks did your best to avoid dealing with the law.”
“I was a cop for twelve years before I decided to go out on my own,” Michael informed him.
“Here in Florida?”
“Texas,” Michael told him, eager to end the conversation. Rehashing his career as a police detective wasn’t high on his list of priorities—especially at one in the morning. He also didn’t want to remember how his own stupidity had caused the bust he and Pete had worked on for months to fall apart. Stupidity that had cost his partner his life and his father his pride. Not to mention the black mark on the entire Houston Police Department.