by The Saint
Jake’s heart tweaked. Like hell, he argued with himself. Of course Courtney had gone on with her life, he reasoned. Trouble was–Jake eyed the man closer–besides the obvious, something about this particular guy nagged him. What the hell was it? Letting his subconscious chew on the problem while he watched the pair sit down, his gaze narrowed.
Courtney appeared to be doing all the talking, but her smile faded as she placed one hand on the man’s tattooed forearm. Jake noted the gesture to be more anchoring than intimate. When the man’s expression turned angry and he jumped up, Jake did the same, catching the table leg with the toe of his shoe and spilling his coffee.
The dripping mess diverted Jake’s attention just long enough for his mind to click the last tumbler into place.
Bingo.
The stranger’s tattoo registered.
Jake’s head snapped up.
Michael St. Claire? It may have been six years ago and the street corner might have been dark–Jake absently rubbed his jaw–but he never forgot a punch. While the waitress wiped his table and refilled his cup, Jake relived St. Claire’ mean left hook and the stay-away-from-my-sister message behind it.
Automatically thanking the waitress, Jake took his seat. He watched St. Claire pace–waiving his arms, then turning away, facing her again and pointing his finger, yanking off his ball cap and slamming it back on. Whatever Courtney was trying to discuss – now she was standing – big brother Mikey didn’t like it one bit. Jake watched as the two spent the next several minutes heatedly arguing back and forth.
Michael turned away again. Courtney grabbed his arm and stopped him. He jerked free, but faced her. She stomped one foot and planted both hands on her hips. Locked in a standoff, they glared at one another.
Neither blinked.
Neither smiled.
Neither spoke.
Courtney finally reached up and tenderly brushed Michael’s flushed cheek with her fingertips. He stepped forward and lowered his forehead to hers. They exchanged a few words and hugged once before he left.
After Courtney watched him drive away, she checked her watch and sat back down on the bench. Shoulders slumped; she swiped nothing off both knees of her jeans, then raked on hand through her hair. Checking the time again, she crossed and uncrossed her legs, fidgeting as she waited. Whatever had taken place between Courtney and Michael had been rough on her, and it showed.
For the third time today, Jake wanted to go to Courtney, but he knew she must be waiting for someone else. He watched her profile as she shaded her eyes with one hand and lean forward for a better look down the street. The moment recognition crossed her features, her posture changed accordingly. Her spine stiffened. Her expression softened. Her hands stilled. When she jumped up and waved to an approaching red sports car, this time Jake craned his neck to get a clearer look. And he did.
A handsome man and a beautiful little girl drove up together, returning Courtney’s smile as they parked the Ford Taurus station wagon next to the curb. The girl hopped out and ran ahead, her waist-length hair trailing like beautiful, ebony ribbons. Heading straight into Courtney’s arms, the child hugged her wildly, then the two of them hurried back to meet the man halfway.
He and Courtney kissed warmly on the cheek.
Their conversation was animated.
Courtney laughed at something he said.
With the young girl snugged between them, the three walked hand-in-hand toward the playground. Talking and smiling. Like a family. Jake’s jaw clenched. Looking away, he tossed down a five for the coffee, then turned his back and walked away. He’d seen more than enough. That, he decided bitterly, could have been his life. **
Ears still ringing from O’Shea’s butt chewing, Courtney sat down on the park bench and struggled unsuccessfully to stay focused as she waited for Michael. As much as she dreaded facing him, her attention span seemed to have a mind of its own and right now it had zeroed in on Jake Ciora. Seeing him again last night had unleashed demons she had counted on staying dead and buried. Instead, one look was all it had taken. All she could think about–despite the hot water she found herself in–was the last time she’d seen him. The unforgettable night six years ago that had been etched in her mind forever…
"This is the Police." The officer's voice boomed through the loudspeaker. "You, in the car, put your hands on the dashboard where we can see them."
Courtney St. Claire' eyes flew open, then slammed shut, blinded by the spotlight illuminating the front seat. She heard Jake curse as she frantically pushed out of his warm embrace. Heart pounding, she automatically slapped down both palms in response to the order.
Unshaken, Jake slowly did the same, then turned to Courtney, his voice low and steady. "It's all right. Whatever's going on, this has to be a mistake."
"Driver, exit from the driver's door with your hands up and move fifteen paces to your left."
"Jake?" Courtney's voice trembled.
"Don't worry, Sweetness," he whispered. "Just trust me."
Jake's reassurance soothed Courtney's panic until the moment he stepped from the car…and she barely recognized him. Gone was the Jake she knew. The misunderstood, guy who had kissed her with aching tenderness only moments before. The tough-talking guy from the other side of town who's thought provoking conversation could make her think as easily as his offbeat sense of humor could make her laugh. The rough-around-the-edges guy who'd never gotten a break in his life, but in her eyes, deserved one.
In his place, Courtney saw the Jake she had only heard about. Smug and defiant, he stood in the reflection of the blue flashing lights of the patrol cars, looking every bit the hoodlum her brother Officer Michael St. Claire had sworn him to be. Fingers glued to the dash, eyes riveted on Jake, Courtney held her breath.
"Ciora?" the officer smirked. "You know the drill. Remain facing the front of the car and lie down on the ground with your hands and legs spread."
The police know him by name? Courtney's heart sank. When Jake deliberately turned his head and spit, Courtney's dreams hit the ground at the same time. Watching Chicago's finest frisk and cuff Jake, then haul him to one side, every warning her over-protective brother had issued rang loud and long in her ears.
Wrong side of the tracks.
Bad reputation.
Trouble.
"Passenger, exit from the driver's door with your hands up."
Despite Jake's hotheaded protests, the police insisted Courtney obey. Knees knocking, Courtney stepped from the car, praying Jake's insolent behavior wouldn't make matters worse–if, in fact, that was possible.
"Move fifteen paces to your left and remain facing toward the front of the car." The officer's instructions were exact.
Careful to count each step, Courtney slowly moved away.
"Lie down on the ground with your hands and legs spread."
Nearly jerking away from the officers, Jake shouted, "Leave her out of this." His solitary threat echoed through the silence.
Fighting the panic, the desperate need to run away from so much more than the authorities, Courtney saw the deserted street they'd parked on was now blocked by two squad cars–lights flashing, doors ajar. So, she knelt first, then hugged the concrete, exactly as she had been told, until her cheek pressed against the cool, damp sidewalk. She lay there–for what seemed like a lifetime–until strong hands secured her wrists behind her back and slapped on cold metal handcuffs. That’s when fear and reality collided head on.
Mortified, Courtney could only imagine the look of horror on her mother's face or brother's outrage if they could see her tonight. Lying spread eagle on the ground. Face down. Surrounded by police. For God's sake, her father had been a police officer before he'd been murdered. If he could see her now…
The patrolman helped Courtney to her feet, and since there was no female officer to frisk her, he only pulled her clothing tight across her chest and between her legs.
"Take your hands off of her," Jake warned, lunging and straining against the two o
fficers that struggled to hold him.
Courtney swallowed hard, unable to blink back the tears of humiliation that scalded her dirt-smudged face as the officer continue checking for concealed weapons.
"What the hell's going on?" Jake demanded, twisting and turning to wrench himself free. "What's this all about?"
"This car was reported stolen, Ciora," the officer stated matter-of-factly.
"What?" Courtney asked, the air whooshing from her lungs. After the degradation of being searched, Courtney had only thought she couldn't feel more violated. But apparently she'd been wrong about a lot of things.
Jake had finally crossed the one line she could never defend. He'd broken the law. How could she have been so naive? So blind? She felt like such a fool.
Jake sneered at the police. "That's bullshit." Flailing his elbows, he twisted to face Courtney. "You have to believe me. I didn't steal this car. I borrowed it."
"Yeah, right." The officers laughed. "We've never heard that one before, have we boys?"
Heartbroken, Courtney said nothing. And that, in itself, said it all. Her doubt mirrored Jake's devastated expression, and without exchanging a single word, Courtney knew they were finished. After tonight, she planned never to see Jake Ciora again.
"Let her go." Jake's voice sliced through the cool May night like a razor. "She's not involved."
"Forget it." The officer shook his head. "You're both going to the station, so listen up. You have the right to remain silent…"
Courtney shivered despite the warm early morning breeze. Some things, she decided were better left in the past. **
The warm sunshine disappeared without warning as Courtney drove into the parking garage adjacent to the high-rise office building. Killing the engine, she transferred her concern to thoughts of Janey and thanked God that her daughter was safe with Barry today.
Courtney smiled, grateful she had taken time to meet them at the park. She had watched proudly as her beautiful, dark-haired child had raced from the swings to the teeter-totter and then scrambled to the very top of the monkey bars–without a lick of fear. Just like her father. Like an arrow to the heart, the thought was immediate and to the point. Courtney’s grin faded. Refocusing her attention, she forced away all thoughts of the past. Grabbing a small, black diskette case, she slipped her purse over one shoulder before stepping from the car onto the dingy concrete floor.
Alone in the grim, tunnel-like atmosphere, the solitary click of her Manolo Blahniks echoed in the silence as she followed the dimly lit, car-lined ramp. She cursed the uncharacteristic shiver that nipped at her heels as she made her way toward the red neon sign above the elevator.
Once inside, she looked up Templeton Enterprises on the directory posted next to the control panel, punched the button marked ten and waited self-consciously as the door closed. See, she chided silently. No boogie men. No psychos. No perverts.
So, why was she still spooked? Maybe it was the contrast between such a sunny day and the artificial twilight of the garage, a subconscious comparison to good and evil she had made. Regardless, Courtney shook it off, and instead of coming unnerved, she forced herself to concentrate. She had to remember exactly how much was riding on her performance this morning.
Today was about repaying Brian O’Shea, at least in part, for everything he'd done for her family since her father had been killed. Showing up at every birthday party. Filling in on father's night at school. Coaching her brother Michael's little league. Not to mention being the only grandpa Janey had ever known.
So by the time the elevator doors swooshed open, Courtney stepped out, determined not to let anyone get in her way. Unfortunately, the gentleman–all two hundred pounds of muscle packed neatly into a well-cut suit–who was posted in the foyer straight ahead had other plans.
She smiled. He didn't. Courtney willed her shoulders to relax. "I have a ten o’clock appointment–" "Name?" "–with Mr. Templeton.” She insisted on finishing. Without ceremony, he picked up a clipboard from the small desk beside the doorway and clarified,
"Your name." So she had to check in. Big deal. She cleared her throat and met his unemotional stare.
"Montgomery. Courtney Montgomery." He ran his finger halfway down the page before stopping to repeat, "Montgomery." "That's right." She waited while he checked off her name and replaced the visitor's log before taking
a step toward the door, but the man didn't budge. Instead, much to her surprise, he reached for her purse. "Excuse me?" Courtney balked, pulling her arm just out of his reach. Security was one thing, but this was ridiculous.
Thank God, she had come to her senses last night and taken that repulsive gun out of her purse the moment she'd gotten home. Dumb luck was all that had prevented her from being caught with it at the party. Today was merely a slap-in-the-head reminder that luck, dumb or otherwise, truly does have a way of
running out. He shrugged. "You dump it. Or I dump it."
Courtney marveled at the simplicity of the man's rationale. Right now, however, she was more concerned about the significance of his thorough search. If last night hadn't opened her eyes to the scope of Templeton's organization, this little wake up call proved one thing. Never underestimate Dirk Templeton.
Overturning her bag, she emptied its contents onto the desktop and offered him the empty purse for inspection.
She watched his large hands fumble through her make-up. No wonder Uncle Brian’s people are having such a tough time. Eyeliner was examined. Powder sniffed. But when he removed the lid to her lipstick, she couldn't hold her tongue a moment longer.
"Trust me – only McGiver could make a grenade from Hot Sunset #6."
Without looking up, he stated, "Well, I'll sure sleep better tonight knowin' that."
"Ignoring his sarcasm, she tried to find his good side. “Do I honestly look like someone who would carry a concealed weapon?" Under the circumstances, she cringed at the ease with which that particular comment passed her lips.
"Can't tell by lookin'." His statement was matter-of-fact, but this time he stopped fondling her belongings long enough to add, "A couple of weeks ago, I caught a seventy-five-year-old babe packin' a .357 magnum." He shook his head. "Go figure."
Courtney gave up trying to converse, at least for the time being, and simply watched him pilfer through the rest of her personal effects–hairbrush, address book, the cellular phone she had swung by her office to retrieve after talking to O’Shea this morning. Apparently satisfied, he unceremoniously scraped everything off the edge of the desk and back into her gaping purse. This kind of thoroughness was proof positive of how creative she would have to be to put something over on these people.
He handed back the bag in exchange for the small case she still held.
"Those are just the diskettes for my computer program," she assured him with a shrug.
Patience waning, she watched him unlatch the case and methodically log each disk, by name, into a laptop computer. Good Lord, this may be tougher than I thought.
After returning her case, he pulled what appeared to be a large wand from beneath the desk. Her free hand instinctively blocked his next move.
"Magnetometer," he announced routinely.
She blinked. "A metal detector?"
"Look, lady, no one goes in or comes out without bein' scanned. It's up to you."
Thanking God for the second time in as many minutes that she had left her gun at home, Courtney nodded. "Knock yourself out."
Jake walked up behind Courtney just in time to see her remove her earrings and watch, then raise both arms–slowly–and comply. Although judging from her exasperated huff, he was certain she was far from thrilled. The hand-held metal detector continued tracing her silhouette–a damned shapely one–until the wand reached her waistline and the buzzer sounded.
Courtney screamed and jumped back.
When the man started to frisk her, Jake's hand snaked out and grabbed him by the wrist. "Is there a problem, Eddie?"
"Alarm went off."<
br />
Jake had seen that same panicky look on Courtney's face once before. Never again, he had vowed that night. As far as he was concerned, today was no exception. "She's okay."
Courtney noted the edge to Jake's voice as he released the other man's arm. His defiant stance. Clenched jaw.
Eddie shook his head. "It's policy."
"Not this time, Eddie."
"Look, Jake–"
"Excuse me," Courtney began, nervously stepping between the testosterone loaded pair. Running into Jake had been inevitable. Courtney knew that. So why, after breaking the ice last night, had her knees threatened to buckle at the sight of him? Stress, she reasoned, nothing more. And why wouldn't she be nervous? You could cut the tension in the air with a knife. "I think I know what the problem is."
Both men glared at her.
Courtney's resolve wavered. Slashing her jugular vein with a rusty can lid held more appeal than revealing her only self-indulgence to anyone, much less two of Templeton's flunkies. But since Jake and Eddie had squared off like a couple of junkyard dogs circling a bone, she didn't have a choice.
So, she showed them.
Jake watched Courtney drop her purse and her bag onto the concrete floor like two well-aimed bombs. She parted her navy blue blazer and began untucking her white blouse. Inching the silky material up with one hand, she shoved the waistband of her matching navy skirt down with the other, exposing her stomach. The smooth flat skin was punctuated by her naval and…
Judging from Eddie's lack of expression, Courtney felt he handled her little display of Show-And-Tell in stride. He didn't blink. Nor did he say a word.
Jake, on the other hand, didn't take her exhibition well at all–which was more than obvious when he opened his mouth to speak, then closed it.
The tailored business suit and white buttoned-to-the-neck blouse she had changed into after leaving the park hadn't fooled Jake any more than her hair neatly upswept in a French knot. He knew she had carefully made each choice for a reason. Too bad her logic hadn't worked. Because not one of her tactics kept Jake from wondering what else she had hidden.