“Well, good night, Mase,” she said.
“Good night,” he said, and he watched her disappear down the hall.
He was exhausted, but he slept fitfully, one ear open as usual for strange noises outside the house. When he was awake, he thought about the events of the day and how happy Joey seemed. He sent a thought up to Amy: I’m doing my best, honey. Joey’s fine. He’s going to be okay.
Mase thought about the day he’d spent with Callie, and he couldn’t help remembering that store she’d gone into. All that lace and silk, the whisper-thin straps and flowing satiny gowns. And Callie’s purchase, a little scrap of black.
Was she wearing it now? Did she have her new nightie on right now? He couldn’t help seeing her in it, the black against her creamy skin. The straps resting lightly on her smooth shoulders, the hem caressing her thighs. Oh, Lord.
Eventually he dozed. He was awakened sometime later, in the pitch-black, by noises in the kitchen, stealthy noises that made him sit bolt upright. Wide-awake, he reached for his service revolver in the night-table drawer.
His heart pounded in adrenaline-powered bursts as he moved silently out of his bedroom and down the hall. It was dark, but he knew the house while the intruder didn’t. He’d edged past Callie’s door, sliding along the wall in the shadows. He heard a small noise again, a cupboard door opening, and moved faster, through the living room to the kitchen. His eyes were growing accustomed to the dark, and he made out a shadow that detached itself from the blackness. Gotcha, he thought, reaching out one hand to the light switch and clicking the safety off his revolver with the other.
Mase blinked once in the blinding light, heard a muffled scream and assumed the shooter’s stance.
It was Callie.
“Oh, my God,” she gasped, one hand to her throat, eyes wide.
Mase stared at her and swore. He lowered the gun and sagged against the wall. “Goddamn it, Callie,” he breathed. “I could have shot you.”
“I…I…there was no glass in the bathroom so I…” she babbled. “A drink, a drink of water, so I…”
“I thought someone broke in,” he said raggedly.
“Oh, God, I…I’m sorry.”
She was wearing the Victoria’s Secret nightie, a short black thing, a scrap of lace leaving her shoulders bare—and her arms and her legs. His eyes feasted on the sight for a heartbeat in time, then he switched his gaze to her face.
“I’m sorry, too,” he said. “I must have scared you to death.”
She gave a shaky laugh. “That’s a big gun you’ve got there.”
“What? Oh.” He looked down at his service revolver, hastily switched the safety on and laid it on the kitchen table.
Callie was hugging herself, standing there barefoot in the middle of his kitchen. And, Mase realized suddenly, all he wore was pajama bottoms.
“I…I guess I should have gotten a glass of water before I went to bed,” she whispered.
“No, no, it’s my fault. I shouldn’t have…”
“I’m so embarrassed.”
They stood there, silent for a long moment, too silent, eyes locked. Both of them had far too much bare skin showing, and Mase felt a slow heat build in his belly.
Callie drew in a quavering breath and tried to smile. “I guess…I better let you get back to bed.”
“Yeah.” But he didn’t move.
Callie moved, though, toward him, still hugging herself, and he had to step back to let her pass. He caught a whiff of her scent, shampoo and a faint aroma of vanilla. He could hear the silky swish of the black negligee against her skin. His belly tightened.
“Uh…sorry about this,” she said in a small voice.
“Yeah.” He rubbed a hand across his face.
“Good night,” she whispered, slipping past him and going down the dark hall, disappearing into her bedroom.
He must have been holding his breath all this time, because suddenly his lungs were starved for oxygen. He drew air in deeply, shook his head. He could have shot Callie. He could have…
He could have taken her into his arms and kissed her, he thought, then blocked out the notion instantly.
He checked the locks on the doors and windows, then picked up his pistol from the table. Once he had turned the light off, he padded down the hall to his room. The house was cool, but Mase lay in bed sweating.
He couldn’t wait till Callie went back to Wyoming. Then maybe he’d get some goddamn sleep.
* * *
OUTSIDE MASE LEBOW’S HOUSE, the Hitman crossed the street. He’d been about to do the job a few minutes ago when the lights suddenly came on in the place, and he’d stopped, frozen. Now everything was dark and silent again, and he could do what he’d come for and get out of there.
Somewhere a dog barked, and he halted, listening. He hated dogs. But this one was far away and quiet now, so he continued on. He reached the driveway and switched on the high-tech, focused-beam flashlight. Taking the tracking device out of the pocket of his trench coat, he knelt down next to the woman’s muddy pickup.
He made a face as he stuck the device onto the bottom of the truck. It was filthy and probably had horse manure all over it. Distasteful. Hank was used to freshly detailed BMWs in spotless garages.
But he knew it was vital he keep track of the cop’s kid. Hank had discussed the whole thing with Metcalf at length—LeBow wouldn’t open his mouth at the trial if there was a threat to his kid. No testimony, no case.
Besides, Metcalf wouldn’t pay Hank the hundred thousand he owed him if the cop testified.
It had been touch-and-go there for a while when LeBow’s kid had disappeared last week. Hank had been nervous, but he’d also been patient, and it had paid off. Lo and behold, the kid had reappeared, and with a pretty young chick, too. Hank wasn’t going to lose him again.
He checked the tracking device to make sure it was fastened firmly on the underside of the pickup, then slowly straightened, dusting his hands off. As he slinked back into the shadows, he was smiling to himself. Got you, LeBow.
CHAPTER TEN
JOEY SLEPT ON THE SEAT next to Callie almost the whole way back to the ranch. Only once did they stop, at a roadside rest station, and he’d gone to the bathroom and bought a bag of chips from a vending machine. He hadn’t even finished the chips when he nodded off again.
Kids aren’t so hard to raise, Callie thought, smiling as she drove. Mase’s kid, anyway.
She chewed the notion over the whole way. Mase’s child. His motherless child. She tried not to dwell on it, but it was so difficult. And last night. The way Mase had looked at her. His bare chest with its triangle of dark hair, his muscular arms, his strong neck. He’d scared her to death. Her heart had nearly burst through her chest, but it hadn’t all been fear. No, some of it had been plain old desire. And Mase, he’d felt something, too. She knew he had.
She almost groaned out loud as she drove through Cheyenne. Why had she worn the new nightgown to bed? Had some perverse, mischief-making imp taken hold of her? Why not her usual extra-large T-shirt?
She couldn’t stop thinking about him, about his child. About crazy, impossible dreams. And she couldn’t wipe the secret smile from her lips. Nothing could wipe it away, not even the knowledge that Mase was keeping something from her, something awfully important. All she had to do was picture him, and her heart kicked at her ribs.
Reality intruded the minute she got out of the truck with Joey and her shopping bags
when Sylvia hurried up to them.
“Oh, my gosh,” she said, wringing her hands. “I’m so glad you’re back. And Joey… Oh, my.”
It wasn’t long before Callie had the story. Not an hour after they’d left for Denver, Rebecca had disappeared. They’d found her within minutes, luckily, hiding under her bed in the bunkhouse. But she’d been despondent ever since, not eating, just sitting near Francine, silent and unreachable.
Callie looked down at Joey and frowned. My Lord, she thought, what was going to happen to Rebecca when Joey left for good?
As Callie suspected, Rebecca came around the minute Joey ran into the kitchen, bubbling over with all his news. He told her that he got to show Callie his house and dinosaurs and everything. And his new video game. Then he handed her the Beanie Baby. Callie, Sylvia, Francine and Liz stood there and watched a tiny smile touch Rebecca’s lips as she clutched the yellow duck. Two hours later, Rebecca had eaten her first real meal in days and was climbing the fence surrounding the riding ring with Joey and Peter, her new toy still in hand.
Even Tom Thorne saw the astounding response in the child. “I don’t know what she’s going to do when Mase picks up Joey for good,” Callie’s dad said solemnly.
Everyone agreed. They all remarked on Joey and Rebecca’s strange bond. And they all looked to Callie for an answer. As if she had one.
The call came from Mase shortly before dinner. “It’s for you, honey,” Callie’s mom said, handing her the portable phone and winking conspiratorially.
Callie took the phone and climbed the stairs to her private spot. As she sat, sighing to herself, she realized everyone at the ranch was pairing her up with Mase—even her folks. If they only knew…
“Hello,” she said, keeping her tone neutral.
And the first words out of his mouth were “You got there okay? You’re safe?”
“Of course we did,” she said. “We got home just fine. Is there some reason we shouldn’t have?”
Mase said something about the weekend traffic on I-25 and the thirty-mile construction zone and a storm—though Callie hadn’t seen a cloud in the sky. She listened to his voice, to the deep male timbre of his voice, and closed her eyes, letting herself pretend he was sitting there next to her. Yet all the time she knew there was something wrong, something Mase was keeping from her.
They talked for a few minutes, and Callie related the story of Rebecca’s response to Joey’s return. She couldn’t say the obvious, that the little girl was going to fall back into that dark hole when Joey left for good. But Mase knew what she was getting at.
“It’s quite a strange relationship,” he said. “Who would have dreamed it?”
I would have, Callie thought, but she kept her musings to herself. Instead, she said, “Is everything okay there?”
“Sure,” he said, “of course.”
“You have to work tomorrow?”
“Every Monday, sure.”
“And there’s no problem at work?”
“No, of course not,” he said. “Listen, I better go. I just wanted to make sure you got home without any trouble.”
Callie let out a breath. “Okay,” she said, “well, goodbye.”
“I’ll call. In a couple days, all right?”
“That would be fine.”
“Give Joey a hug for me?”
“I will,” she said.
She’d tried to keep her voice even, tried not to pry too hard into his life. But, darn it, he was being deceitful. She knew it. And it wasn’t fair. She rose and went down to dinner, putting on a cheerful face. But, oh, how hard it was. She hurt inside. Every time she thought about Mase or glanced at Joey, she ached. She desperately wanted Mase to trust her. She needed him to trust her.
* * *
MASE GOT INTO THE SHOWER on Monday morning, his head still full of images of Callie and Joey here in this house. A house that had seemed too damn empty since Amy’s death.
He lathered his chest and remembered Joey yesterday, jumping with excitement at the prospect of leaving for Wyoming. The boy had babbled about Francine and her chocolate cake and his new friends, Rebecca and Peter. In fact, he’d been bubbling with anticipation. It was difficult, but Mase was beginning to douse that ember of resentment he’d first felt. Joey truly was coming out of the depression he’d been in this last year. It was as if a weight had been lifted from Mase’s shoulders, one he hadn’t acknowledged was even there. Was it the ranch or Callie that had made the difference? Callie with her terminal optimism.
Curiously, it had been both difficult and easy to ask Callie if Joey could stay on at the Someday Ranch for a couple more weeks. Easy for Joey’s sake. But real hard for Mase. Not because he felt beholden to her. And not even because he was worried sick about his son’s safety. It had been difficult because he was lying to Callie Thorne. Lying to the most unselfish, honest person he’d ever met.
He got out of the shower and cleared a spot in the foggy mirror, meeting his own eyes. Damn, but he hated deceiving her. He’d never thought it was going to happen again, never thought a woman rambling around his house could feel so right. Yet, amazingly, Callie’s presence here had brought him such pleasure he was stunned. He’d never met anyone like her—never knew people like Callie existed. And he wasn’t being honest with her.
He tugged on his trousers and zipped them up, staring at the unmade bed. Despite himself, despite the hopelessness of the situation, he stared long and hard at the bed, seeing Callie there in her new nightgown, the smooth material lying against her skin, every curve and hollow and lean line revealed in stark relief. He saw her as clearly as if she were really there, the small firm breasts, the shadow of her womanhood, the pale fine flesh of her arms and thighs.
He ached fiercely but couldn’t stop staring and fantasizing. Sure, okay, he was a man, and it had been a long time, but this was more. He craved her, the silkiness of her breasts against him, the scent of her. He craved her very soul. He stared at the bed he’d shared with his wife, and he felt the throb of life in his veins again, the need, the longing, the sweet pain of desire for another person.
Mase finally tore his gaze from the sheets and pulled on a shirt. He threw his suit jacket on and stuffed a tie in the pocket. Although he tried not to look at the bed again, her face stayed in his head—the whimsical expressions, the spots of red rising on her cheeks, the dancing light in her hazel eyes.
Yesterday, when she and Joey had driven off, Mase had gotten in his car and secretly followed them for the first fifty miles to make damn good and sure he was the only one on their tail. He remembered his relief that they were okay—and a curious regret that he wasn’t going back to the ranch with them.
Mase grabbed an apple and headed out to his car, trying to get Callie and Joey out of his thoughts. He needed to concentrate on the trial and on Hank Berry, who, he was positive, was close by. He didn’t have time to dwell on Callie.
And yet it was impossible to let go of her. Magic, she’d told him, the ranch was magic. But she was dead wrong. It was Callie who was magic.
Mase parked in his usual spot in the lot across from the downtown Denver police headquarters. He strode past the row of bail bondsmen offices located in brightly painted Victorian houses and locked his jaw—same old, same old. Big-city traffic, Monday morning smog, crowds, crime—endless crime. Damn, but he was tired of it.
Luke, his partner, was waiting for him up in Homicide. “You ain’t gonna like this,” Luke said, and he
handed Mase a memo from their boss, telling Mase to meet him at ten sharp in the D.A.’s office.
Mase groaned. “You know what this is about?” he asked Luke.
“Nah. But I can guess.”
So could Mase. He got to the D.A.’s and, sure enough, there was billionaire Richard Metcalf’s attorney sitting at the big conference table with the D.A., Mase’s captain, the court stenographer and two assistant D.A.s.
“Sit down, Mase,” the D.A. said, nodding toward an empty seat. “Coffee, a roll?”
“I’ve eaten, thanks,” Mase said, fixing Metcalf’s attorney, whom Mase had dubbed “Sleazebag,” with a glare.
It was the usual bullshit meeting. Sleazebag had more questions concerning the deposition Mase had given some months ago. Everyone was present—as always—to posture, bluff and defend positions. Mase’s deposition, which was the most detailed he’d ever given on a homicide case, lay on the table. It must have been two hundred typed pages, detailing the exact events of the night of Councilman Edwards’s murder. Hell, Mase even recalled Sleazebag asking what Mase had eaten for dinner. Like it really mattered.
The attorney leaned forward, pushed his bifocals up his nose and began leafing through the deposition. He cleared his throat and looked up then, taking in the whole entourage. “I’m afraid,” he said, “that in this entire sworn deposition, there isn’t one thing that links my client to the demise—” Mase loved that, the demise “—of Councilman Edwards. If this is all you have, gentlemen, then I must go to the court and file a summary judgment, asking for a dismissal of the case. You don’t have anything.”
Mase growled under his breath.
The D.A. smiled. “Harvey, Harvey, Harvey,” he said to Metcalf’s lawyer, “don’t tell me you called this meeting on the grounds that we don’t have a case.” He laughed good-naturedly. “We have a watertight case and you know it. We’ve got Mase LeBow’s deposition right here stating that he met Mr. Hank Berry, known to every crime-solving force in the Union as the Hitman, in the lobby of the councilman’s apartment. We don’t need rocket scientists on the jury to figure out what he was doing there.”
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