by Metsy Hingle
“All right. But you need to be thinking about the future, Lily. While there’s nothing wrong with working at the diner, you’re too smart a girl to be content with waiting tables.”
“I know,” Lily told her. In truth, she had thought more than once about going to school, getting some training and even maybe starting a business of her own. She’d even daydreamed a time or two about being able to buy a house instead of renting. But how she could do any of those things when trying to stay out of Adam’s reach remained her greatest concern. She thought again about the disk and the phone call she’d made to the FBI. She’d worried herself sick for nearly a week, fearful they would somehow connect the call to her.
“If you decided to go back to school a few nights a week, I wouldn’t mind keeping Timmy for you.”
“Thanks, Gertie. I appreciate that and I promise to think about it.” Eager to change the subject, she said, “But right now, I’m just going to enjoy having my son with me again. I thought we’d stop at the park on the way home so he can play outside for a while.”
“I’m sure he’ll like that,” Gertie said, her expression softening as she looked at Timmy. “With the weather so nasty and him running a temperature and itching from those chicken pox, the poor little lamb’s been cooped up in this house way too long. I’m sure it’ll do him good to be outdoors for a change.”
“That’s what I thought, too,” Lily said, and was relieved that her friend had dropped the discussion about divorcing Adam and her plans for the future. She walked over to where Timmy was making racing noises with his new toy and knelt down. “Hey, sweetie, how would you like to go to the park?”
“Park?” Timmy cried out excitedly. He immediately abandoned his new car and scrambled to his feet. “Go to park, Mommy. Go to park.”
Lily laughed. “All right. But first you need to kiss Gertie goodbye and thank her for taking such good care of you.”
He ran over, hugged the older woman around one thick leg and offered his face to her for a kiss. When Gertie bent over, he gave her a big kiss and said, “Tank you taking care of me.”
“Oh, you’re welcome, snuggle bug,” Gertie told him, ruffling his hair.
“Come, Mommy,” Timmy said, tugging on her hand. “We go to park.”
“All right, we’re going.” She pressed a kiss to Gertie’s wrinkled cheek and said, “Thanks again. For everything.”
Eager to take advantage of what was left of the afternoon, Lily strapped Timmy, along with his teddy, into his safety seat in the rear of the car and stored his suitcase in the trunk. After shutting the trunk, she started toward the driver’s side and paused, suddenly alert. She had the strangest sensation that she was being watched.
A shiver raced down Lily’s spine as she pulled open the car door. All the while she listened closely. She heard the birds chirping above her in the oak trees that shaded the street, heard the dog bark next door. A cat’s yowl and a hiss followed. Unable to shake the feeling that she was being observed, she glanced down the street, noted a woman in her early twenties jogging with her dog. A look in the opposite direction revealed an elderly couple taking advantage of the mild springlike weather, strolling down the sidewalk. She noted the way the woman’s hand was tucked into the crook of the gentleman’s arm and was struck by the oneness of the pair.
“Park, Mommy,” Timmy demanded from the back seat.
“All right, big guy,” she said. And telling herself she was only imagining things, Lily slid behind the wheel of the car and headed for the park.
“Bingo,” Michael muttered as he watched Lily from his hunkered-down position in the seat of his Bronco. Only now could he acknowledge that he’d begun to worry that something might have happened to the little boy. And for a moment his excitement at finally seeing the kid had made him less than discreet. It was why, he suspected, that she’d suddenly begun looking around her.
But seeing the boy now, knowing that he was safe, sent relief flooding through his system. He didn’t know why the kid had been staying at the Boudreaux woman’s house all this time, and the truth was he didn’t care. He was simply glad that, at last, she had the boy with her.
When Lily’s car pulled away from the curb, Michael started his truck and followed her. When she turned onto the winding road that snaked through Audubon Park, Michael took care to remain far enough behind her so that she wouldn’t spot him. After she stopped her vehicle across from the playground and raced with the little boy toward the swings, he parked the truck several hundred yards away beneath one of the moss-draped oaks and shut off the engine. Then he reached for his binoculars.
The kid was small, Michael thought as he watched Lily pushing the little boy on the swing. He’d turned three only a few weeks ago, Michael recalled, remembering the data in the file Webster had given him. The boy was fair like his mother, Michael noted, but his hair was darker, sort of a sandy-brown color. And although he had his mother’s nose and mouth, his eyes were brown like Webster’s. When the little boy tipped his head back and laughed, Michael recognized the smile immediately. It was Lily’s smile, he realized, and he couldn’t help remembering that jolt to his system when she had laughed the other day in the diner.
He shifted his gaze to Lily. Sunshine slanted across her face and he was struck once more by her fragile beauty. When she laughed at something her son said, Michael experienced that same one-two punch of desire again and swore.
Irritated with his reaction to the woman, he reminded himself of who and what she was—Elisabeth Webster, Adam Webster’s trophy wife. A woman who had drugged her wealthy, older husband and kidnapped his son.
Yet, as she pushed her son on the swing, Michael noticed there was an edginess to Lily’s 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 she had spotted him. 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 his son—gnawed at him, stirring old feelings and protective instincts inside him he thought he’d buried a long time ago. Yet even as he tried to shake the urges that Lily stirred in him, 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.
And what about the money? You’ve thought from the outset that the money Webster was willing to pay to find her was excessive, didn’t you?
Michael frowned at the voices playing havoc inside his head. If Timmy and Lily were his, wouldn’t he pay anything to get them back? And if Lily belonged to him, wouldn’t he be just as tied up in knots over her as Webster apparently was? He knew that the answer to both questions was yes. But Timmy didn’t belong to him. And neither did Lily, he reminded himself. Especially not Lily.
Face it, Sullivan. You didn’t like Webster. But the main reason you didn’t like the man was because you wanted what’s his. You wanted his wife, and you’re looking for excuses to play hero so you can keep her for yourself.
Michael stared at Lily, forced himself to see beyond the delicate creature that she appeared to be. Again he went over all the facts of the case: Lily marrying a man old enough to be her father, Lily drugging her husband, Lily stealing cash from her husband’s safe, Lily stealing her son. To do any of those things, she would have had to plan, to scheme.
Just the way that Giselle had planned and schemed. Giselle. He recalled her coming into the bar where he had gone for a few beers after work, and remembered how blinded he had been by her beauty. She’d been so fragile-looking and he’d fallen for her hard-luck story, hook, line and sinker. And because he had, he’d unleashed a viper into their midst. Suddenly, as though it were yesterday instead of five years ago, he was back in Houston…
Cursing the rainstorm that had created a gridlock
in traffic, Michael slammed his truck into Park and, heedless of the rain that continued to pummel him, started for the warehouse. His boots skidded along a slick spot. He righted himself and prayed that the thundering rain would conceal the sound of his feet slapping the wet surface. He ran past an empty crate, ignored the scurry of rodents and stench of rotting fruit.
Got to save Pete. Got to save Pete.
He repeated the words like a mantra. He’d known something was wrong with Pete for weeks now. He’d felt it in his gut, sensed it in the way his partner had been acting—distracted, secretive, edgy. So why hadn’t he listened to his instincts and confronted his friend?
Because he hadn’t wanted to believe Pete had turned. Just as he hadn’t wanted to admit that there had been something going on between Pete and Giselle. Giselle, who looked like an angel, and seemed so helpless, so vulnerable. Only now did he realize it had all been an act—that she’d used him to get to Pete.
“What are you doing? That’s my money,” Pete yelled.
“No, Mr. Crenshaw. It is my money. And these are my drugs.”
Michael froze at the sound of Alexi’s voice. For the past six months they’d been working a special assignment, setting up a drug sting to nail the Russian who had been dealing in the Houston area.
“But you can’t do that,” Pete argued.
“Oh, but I can,” Alexi insisted. “Did you really think I did not know what you and your partner, Sullivan, were up to? That I would be foolish enough to make a transaction with two Houston police detectives?”
Michael retrieved the gun from inside of his boot and released the safety. Taking care to remain quiet, he kept his back pressed against the wall of the empty warehouse as he edged his way around the corner. He dropped low, made his way over to a set of metal drums near the door to look inside. His blood ran cold as he took in the scene. Alexi stood in front of a table containing an open briefcase stacked with money and a suitcase filled with bags of cocaine. While Alexi trained his gun on Pete, one of his men disarmed Pete.
“But how did you know—”
“That this was a setup? And that you were willing to double-cross your partner and keep the money for yourself?” Alexi laughed. He snapped his fingers and another man came out of the shadows with Giselle. He shoved her toward the Russian.
“Giselle,” Pete said.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured.
“Such a pretty, fragile little thing, don’t you think?” Alexi traced the muzzle of his gun along Giselle’s cheek. “I had hoped her charms would work on your partner. But although Detective Sullivan was quite taken with her sad tale and was willing to help her, he was uninterested in becoming more intimate and telling her about his work. You, on the other hand, were not. You were quite willing to share, how do you say, pillow talk?”
“Pete, I’m sorry. I—”
Alexi backhanded her, and when Pete started to go for him, the bruiser cocked his gun.
“Alexi, please. Can’t you just take the money and drugs and let him go?”
“You know that is not possible, my dear. Unfortunately, this affection you have for Detective Crenshaw has made you somewhat of a liability. I am afraid we will have to alter our little scenario.”
“What do you mean?” Giselle asked, and even at a distance Michael could see the woman was petrified. Only now did she realize what was going to happen.
“I mean, my dear, that you will have to die along with your detective.”
“Alexi, please,” Giselle pleaded.
He shoved her toward Pete. “What a pity it will be for the detective’s family to discover that he was not only a dirty cop who stole money and drugs, but that he ran away with his mistress. And what could be more fitting than to have the two lovers die in a fiery car explosion in their haste to escape? Of course, the money and drugs will be destroyed in the accident.”
“You’ll never get away with this,” Pete told him as he held a sobbing Giselle in his arms. “Sullivan knows what’s going down.”
“Unfortunately, your Detective Sullivan won’t be able to tell anyone, because when he arrives later tonight for the exchange, you will have killed him with your gun before escaping with the money and drugs. Now enough chitchat. Victor, get the suitcases.”
As Victor put down his gun to do his boss’s bidding, Michael knew this would be his only chance. With his weapon drawn, he jumped out into the opening. “Drop the gun,” he ordered the man holding the gun on Pete. “Drop it now or I put a bullet through your boss’s head.”
“Ah, Detective Sullivan. You decided to join us,” Alexi said calmly.
“Tell him to drop his weapon,” Michael commanded.
“Come, come, now, Detective. There are three of us, and only one of you. Do you really think you will succeed?”
“Maybe. Maybe not. But I know if I go down, you’re going with me.”
The smile the Russian gave him had the blood chilling in Michael’s veins. “Boris, take them out.”
Bullets flew. Alexi went down. Something hot stung Michael’s shoulder, but not before he’d taken out Victor. He swung his gun toward the bruiser named Boris. And in what seemed like slow motion, Michael saw the big guy aim his gun at Giselle, heard Pete yell out and throw his body in front of her…
“Mommy, look!”
The sound of Timmy squealing for his mother jolted Michael back to the present. Michael swallowed hard, waited for his heartbeat to slow and picked up the binoculars again.
He watched as Lily laughed and swooped her giggling son from the swing to spin him around in her arms. And he thought of Petey and Micky.
As he looked at Lily again he thought about how the money he’d get for handing her and the boy to Webster would go a long way to making the Crenshaws’ lives a lot easier.
Suppose Lily really was in trouble?
Then that was her problem. He was out of the white-knight business, Michael reminded himself. Putting aside the binoculars, he reached for his cell phone. All he had to do was punch in Webster’s number and tell the man he’d located his wife and son. Webster would be on the next plane, and this time tomorrow he’d be collecting the rest of his money.
Michael rubbed at his eyes and tried to envision himself on that sailboat, sailing around the world and not having to take any more jobs like this one for a year, maybe longer. Yet try as he might, he couldn’t get the image of Lily laughing out of his head. Irritated with himself for allowing the woman to get under his skin he opened his eyes and punched out Webster’s number.
“Webster—”
“This is Sullivan,” Michael began, only to have what was a recorded message tell him to leave his name and number.
Irritated, Michael said, “This is Sullivan. I’ve found your wife and son.”
Eight
In the bedroom of his Miami penthouse suite, Adam Webster tuned out the sound of the phone ringing in the adjoining office as he moved between the legs of the young blonde beneath him. With the lights dimmed, and if she kept her mouth shut, he could almost believe that she was Elisabeth.
Elisabeth. His Elisabeth, he thought as he filled his hands with her pale breasts and squeezed. He shoved himself into her, smiled as she sucked in a breath. But when her eyes widened, he saw that they were blue. Not green. And he faltered.
“Close your eyes,” he ordered, wanting to recreate the illusion that it was Elisabeth beneath him and not the girl from the club. When she closed her eyes as he’d instructed, he began to move inside her again.
Sweat beaded between his shoulders, along his forehead, above his lip as he pumped into her. Harder. Deeper. Faster. Ignoring her moans and the fingers clawing at him, he thought of Elisabeth. Of how beautiful she was. Of how perfect she was. Of how he had trained her in the ways to please him. Of the envy he saw in other men’s eyes when they saw her with him. Of the knowledge that no other man had come before him, and that no other man would ever have her. Only him. Only him. Because Elisabeth belonged to him. Only him.
“You’re mine,” he told the girl as he rammed himself into her again and again and again. Finally he felt the rush that had been building to a peak. His body stiffened. He drove himself into her one last time and shouted, “Elisabeth!” Then he collapsed on top of her.
Adam lay atop her, irritated that the rush that came with sexual relief had been too short and less than satisfying. He considered increasing his dosage of Viagra next time to try to sustain the pleasure.
“Adam, I can’t breathe.”
At the sound of her voice, Adam rolled off the girl and onto his back. While her voice might have that hint of the South as Elisabeth’s had, it lacked the softness and refinement.
“Was I okay?” she asked him, reminding him of an eager puppy.
“Yeah, you were fine,” he said, and patted her rear. “Why don’t you go get me a drink.”
When she climbed out of the bed and moved across to the bar, Adam looked away. Despite having her hair restyled and died the pale shade that had been Elisabeth’s, the girl’s hair lacked the silky texture and thickness that Elisabeth’s had. As he studied her figure, he noted more differences. Elisabeth’s waist had been smaller than this girl’s. So had her breasts. Elisabeth’s breasts had been full and rounded, not the size of grapefruits because of implants. He angled his gaze to the thatch of dark hair between her thighs and as she started toward him he scowled. Elisabeth had been a real blonde.
“Here you go,” she said, returning to join him on the bed. “Just the way you like it.”
Adam sat up, sipped the martini she’d prepared for him. As he enjoyed the drink, she began to pet him, stroke him, lick him. As her tongue circled his shaft, he could feel himself growing hard again. He finished off the martini, set the glass aside and enjoyed the feel of her mouth working on him.
But when she glanced up at him adoringly, he found the blue eyes disturbing. “Tomorrow I want you to go see an eye doctor and have him fit you for green contacts.”