by Nancy Bush
A trickle of sweat ran down her spine as she hiked upward. Looking back down the hill, she saw the ferry, shrunk by distance, returning across the bay from Pointe du Bout. Even from this distance she could discern many of the major hotels and tourist resorts that ringed this side of the bay, their white sand beaches sloping into the sea. When Callie and Jonathan had come to Martinique on their honeymoon, they’d stayed at one of those hotels. This time she’d steered clear of them. She asked herself for about the millionth time why she’d chosen Martinique when it held such a dubious memory for her, but she had no answer to that. It was a pretty place. More tropical than Los Angeles. She hadn’t traveled a lot, apart from moving from a suburb of Chicago to the West Coast after a man she’d thought she wanted to marry. It was Bryan’s dream to work as an actor and Callie’s dream to be with Bryan. Neither had worked out.
Tired, she paused for breath, setting down her bag and wiping perspiration from her forehead. It was damn hot. The kind of thick, tropical heat heavy with humidity that stole your breath and weighted down your limbs. Resolutely straightening her shoulders, Callie trudged on again. As the noise of Fort-de-France receded behind her, she almost felt alone on the planet. The only other person in view was a man walking some distance behind her. He looked familiar and her heart jolted before she realized he was only the man who’d been watching the sailboat, his small binoculars tucked into his belt. He was staring into the screen of his cell phone, his forward motion kind of haphazard as his attention was on his phone.
Texting, she assumed, thinking of the disposable phone she’d purchased, then shoved in a drawer. She’d made a few calls since she’d been here, couldn’t act completely like she was a missing person. The few times her phone had rung she’d known it was William Lister or a wrong number. She didn’t answer either way. She didn’t have anything to say to Lister. She would deal with him and the rest of Jonathan’s family when she was darn good and ready. She’d given them everything they wanted, and if they would just leave her alone, she would be back soon enough anyway.
And you’ll leave Tucker.
She couldn’t think about that now. Couldn’t. Think. About it.
Cutting across a weed-choked lawn, she took a shortcut the rest of the way. The sun was shining brightly as she turned a corner, walked along a cracked, narrow sidewalk, then ducked into the alley between her apartment building and the one next door.
Where the hell is she going?
He kept a careful distance behind, his gaze not on the smartphone in his hand but on her tan legs and the swaying hem of her gauzy white sundress. He’d been looking for her for over a week, trolling a particular Internet café, making discreet inquiries, getting nowhere. Then she’d turned up at the market and walked down to the pier, big as you please. Soaking in the sights like every other tourist, her crown of hair shining beneath the blazing sun.
He wanted to kill her with his bare hands.
“Don’t do anything rash,” Victoria had warned him in her tight-lipped way. “If you have to bargain with her, okay. But don’t antagonize her any further.”
Like he needed to be told what to do. He’d done plenty of surveillance. Had enough years with the LAPD to be considered an old hand.
Still, Victoria was right in one respect: he wanted to shake the woman until she fell into pieces. He wanted to shatter her self-indulgent world and leave her in the rubble. There would be no bargaining as far as he was concerned. Victoria knew that, but she always tried to make everything sound so civilized. But the only way to deal with her was by bringing things down to a level she could understand.
Bargaining was for beggars. Now was the time for action.
The bitch was in his sights.
Callie stopped again, halfway through the alley, arms aching. She set down her carryall and swept a hand through her hair, making a face at its long, untamed style. When she got back to LA she was going to cut it short. A new life and a new look. Maybe she’d get her master’s and apply for a real teaching job.
Hoisting her bag once more, Callie continued on the sun-cracked dirt path between the buildings. She met no one and the silence was unbroken as she walked on. The sun reflected off the white walls and prickled her scalp. The air felt like a hot blanket. She blew on straggles of hair that fell into her eyes and thought about the pitcher of iced lemonade that awaited her in her tiny refrigerator.
A pebble lodged itself in her sandal and she stopped, lifting her foot and wiggling her toes. Lemonade and croissants at the little table on her balcony, she told herself. Maybe she would even splurge and try one of the gooey pastries she’d gotten for Tucker. Maybe he would even come back and share with—
“So, Martinique, huh?” a cold, male voice asked. “Must be a reason.”
Callie nearly jumped from her skin. He’d made no sound and she’d thought she was alone. Before she could respond a hand grabbed her upper arm and twisted her around until her back was pressed against the west building’s hot wall.
“Wh-what?” Callie stared at him and the air rushed from her lungs. Deeply tanned. Hard jaw, mouth, and eyes. The man with the binoculars. “Let go of me!”
“Where’s the boy?” he gritted out.
“The boy?” she repeated blankly.
“Stephen Tucker Laughlin. Your son, Teresa. Where is he?”
Chapter Two
Your son.
The words stopped her cold. Stephen Tucker . . . ? Tucker? He meant Tucker? Her head swam. Tucker wasn’t her son. Her son was gone.
He shook her hard. “You’re not going to faint,” he warned.
No, she wasn’t going to faint. But was that the truth? She felt like she could faint.
Teresa. He’d called her Teresa?
“Where is he?” he demanded again.
Her heart raced with fear. Her mind was dull and sluggish. With a feeling of unreality Callie stared at the man. There was a grimness of purpose around his mouth that chilled her blood. She tried to capture her scattered wits. “Who are you?” she managed to get out.
“Make a guess.”
“What? I can’t . . . I don’t think—”
“Take a good, hard look.”
Callie could do little else. His face, tanned to the color of teak, was within inches of hers. His eyes were bluer than her own, with thick, dark lashes and tiny white lines edging from the corners where the sun never reached. Dark hair framed a lean, savage face; she was certain his nose had been broken more than once. His mouth was wide and sensual and she thought a bit cruel; his jaw, firm and jutting, sported a dark growth of beard. He looked handsome, dangerous, and determined.
And he scared the living shit out of her. “What—do you want?”
“Show me the boy.”
Did he mean Tucker? He must. His hand still held her left wrist. The grip was tight and hurting, and only the solid wall behind her back kept her on her feet. “I don’t know you.”
“Not yet.”
She didn’t like the implied threat in his tone. “I don’t know who you think I am, but you’re mistaken.”
His fingers flexed and tightened on her wrist. “People tell me I look like Stephen. Personally, I’ve never thought there was much resemblance. What do you think?” He leaned in so close that she could see the individual hairs of the stubble on his chin.
“Stephen . . . ?” His grip tightened but she was at a loss. “I don’t know any Stephen. You—you have to let me go.”
“I have to?” he challenged.
“When you realize the mistake you’ve made, you’ll . . .” Be sorry. That sounded so overly dramatic she couldn’t make herself say it. “Just let me go.”
She realized belatedly that her free hand was still gripped around her carryall, as if her very life depended on it. Slowly she dropped it to the ground. If he was looking for Tucker, she wasn’t going to give him away. “I don’t know any boy.” She glanced down at the carryall, anything to keep from looking at him directly. “I have some cash with me—n
ot much—maybe enough . . .”
“Goddammit, Teresa.” He gave her another shake. “Do I have to drag it out of you?”
“My name’s Callie. You’ve got me mixed up with someone else.”
He swore tightly, beneath his breath, then grabbed her right wrist, too, pinning her flat against the wall. Both of her wrists were down by her waist but now he twisted up her left arm, pulling it forward until the bracelet Tucker had given her was at eye level between them.
“What about this?” he asked, meaning the bracelet.
Callie stared into his eyes with growing panic. All she could think about was Tucker and the bracelet. It was valuable. It must be! How had he gotten it? And how did this man know about it?
She suddenly didn’t care what he wanted. She didn’t care who he was. But if he tried to steal Tucker’s bracelet from her he’d be in for the fight of his life. She’d rather die than let him take it from her.
“Let go of me,” she said tautly, jerking at her left arm. But his grip was too strong, his fingers too tight around her wrist. She glared at him, matching his savagery with her own growing anger.
“Looks like I struck a nerve,” he said with a smugness that infuriated Callie. “We both know where you got the bracelet.”
“Yeah?”
He nodded.
“Well, if you know how I got it, you’re a mind reader.”
“Stephen gave it to you.”
“No.” But uncertainty flickered through her. Stephen Tucker Laughlin. That’s who he’d said he was looking for.
“Or you stole it from him,” he added easily. “Victoria probably gave you too much of a pass on that one.”
Is Tucker this Stephen Tucker Laughlin he’s looking for?
“Who are you?” she asked.
“The black sheep of the family. If you try hard enough, I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”
He clearly thought she was someone else, and she already understood she wouldn’t be able to convince him of that fact. And he also wasn’t going to listen to her, no matter what she said. It was insane and she felt panic rise inside her.
She hauled back and kicked him as hard as she could, connecting with his shin. He cursed viciously but didn’t release her. Callie tried to kick another time but suddenly she was slammed hard against the wall again. The air shot from her lungs and she inhaled like she was starved for air. His full weight was pressed against her.
“I’m not Teresa,” Callie gasped. “In my wallet . . . my identification . . . you’ll see.”
“Shut up,” he growled furiously. “I know you. So help me, before this is over you’re going to know me, too.”
“It’s a mistake . . . it’s a mistake.”
She could hear the hard pounding of his heart as if it were in her own ears. Her own pulse beat in rapid tandem. She hadn’t been this close to a man since Jonathan. Hadn’t wanted to be. The bizarre events that had led to this encounter only added to the intensity.
A scream rose in her throat, but as if he sensed it his grip changed and one hand pushed down on her collarbone, the fingers lightly creeping toward her throat.
“Don’t,” he said softly.
“You’re scaring me.” Tears built behind her eyes.
“That’s the idea,” he muttered grimly.
A sound caught their attention. At the north end of the alleyway, two young men were just entering.
Thank God. Callie could have wept with joy. Salvation was at hand.
But then she met the eyes of her captor and they read each other’s mind at the same moment, Callie gauging just when to cry for help, her attacker wondering how to silence her.
She opened her mouth, but her cry was extinguished as his mouth suddenly descended on hers, grinding down on her, cutting off her breath. As a kiss it left a lot to be desired, but as a means of keeping her quiet it was quite effective. She made choking sounds that could have meant anything, and though she tried to push him away she was helpless against his weight and the surprise of his unexpected maneuver.
She pounded on his back but he was impervious to the action. The fingers of his right hand held her face a prisoner.
There was no passion in the kiss, just a steely determination that Callie found more frightening than anything he’d done so far. He loathed what he was doing; she could feel it in the tight, unyielding contours of his lips, the tense hostility that radiated from every pore. If this was the way he felt about the mysterious Teresa, Callie found herself glad she wasn’t in the other woman’s shoes.
Except she was—sort of. At least he thought she was.
Teresa . . . Jonathan had called her Teresa the first time they met . . . that was the name, wasn’t it? Or had it been Marissa . . . ?
The missing piece dancing outside her memory floated within reach. Something about Teresa? Immediately it slid out of reach again.
One of his hands was wound in her hair and her head was trapped. The two teenagers whistled as they walked by. Callie wondered if she twisted, flailed, and sought escape, they would even consider she was a woman in trouble. She was aware of how much this kiss might look like an act of passion.
As soon as the young men were out of earshot, Callie’s captor released her lips as if she burned his touch.
“Don’t,” he warned.
“I wasn’t going to do anything.” Actually, she’d been thinking about slapping him and letting loose a bloodcurdling scream at the same time. Instinct warned her against antagonizing him further, however. This man was no ordinary hoodlum. And by his accent he was obviously American, like herself. He truly believed he’d found Teresa. If he would just give her a chance to explain, maybe he would leave her alone. He wasn’t a threat to Callie Cantrell, so it was better . . . smarter . . . to play along.
“Where’s the boy?” he asked again. “Tell me.”
She knew with bone-deep certainty now that he meant Tucker. Had to be. There were only so many coincidences she could believe in. Had Tucker, or this Teresa person, stolen the bracelet from him? Was that it? Not that she gave a damn, but she wasn’t going to reveal anything to him that might put Tucker in danger.
“Listen to me. Just listen,” she added tautly when she saw more impatience cross his face. “I’m not Teresa, whoever she is. I’m Callie, Callie Cant—” She cut herself off at the last minute, realizing it wasn’t beyond probability that he knew exactly who she was and that this whole scenario was an act. She was, after all, Jonathan Cantrell’s widow, and though Jonathan had run through a substantial portion of the Cantrell fortune, this man might not know that. In essence, she was the heir of what remained and maybe he knew that, too.
Is this what you can’t remember? she asked herself. Is this what Jonathan was hiding? “I’m not Teresa,” she said again, firmly. “I don’t know you, and I really resent the way you’ve accosted me. I’m a tourist. On vacation. That’s all. Now, get the hell away from me.”
“You’re not Teresa.”
She shook her head.
“You just happen to be wearing a Laughlin family heirloom.”
The bracelet burned on her arm. “I don’t know about that.”
“You don’t?”
“No,” she said firmly.
“If I didn’t have the evidence that said otherwise, I might even believe you.”
“You’re lying. You won’t believe me no matter what I say.”
He looked faintly surprised by her challenge. “You got me there.”
“Look at my identification, for God’s sake!” she demanded, throwing caution to the wind. If he was really after Cantrell money, no amount of lying about who she was could save her now. “My wallet’s in my bag.”
“Fake identification’s not beyond your capabilities.”
“Oh, please.”
“I’ll look at it when we get to your place.”
“My place?”
He’d been looking in the direction the teenagers had taken, as if considering where to go from here. Now
his dark head turned back to her. “Your place.”
“We’re not going to my place,” she stated firmly. “I’m not who you think I am.”
“I know who you are,” he ground back at her again.
Callie realized there was nothing she could say. This stranger was convinced she was someone else. He truly believed she was this Teresa person and he wasn’t going to listen to reason. What the hell was she supposed to do?
What if Tucker is waiting for you?
“You’re crazy,” she whispered.
“Take me to the boy and I’ll go away.”
His grip had weakened slightly after the kiss. Callie pretended to consider his demand, inwardly counting her own heartbeats. She twisted from his grasp and jumped away in one swift movement, racing for the end of the alley with all her might.
One thought in her mind: Run!
She could feel him gaining on her as the wind streaked past her ears. She felt fingertips brush her back and she leapt forward, crashing down on one unsteady ankle. Her sandal caught a cobblestone and she flew forward.
Her face hit the ground and her chin jarred with the impact. She saw stars and for one, wild moment prayed she could be hurt, at least rendered unconscious.
Except he would probably just pick her up and kidnap her.
He was beside her in a moment, turning her over gently. She groaned and closed her own eyes against the concerned blue eyes that seemed to peer into her soul.
“Damn it, Teresa. Goddammit.” He expelled his breath and she felt it on her throat. “For chrissakes, just stop. You can’t just run away with Tucker.”
“You’re going to be so sorry.” She didn’t open her eyes, but there was steel in her unsteady voice.
“I’m going to stick to you like glue until you give him up. Where is he? Tell me, and I’ll let you go.”
Callie was unable to answer him. She realized she was losing her fear of him. He wanted Tucker. Keeping her eyes squeezed shut, she thought of a dozen responses that continually boiled down to the one that finally passed her lips, “Screw you.”