by Nancy Bush
And that intent was to leave. Soon . . . now. To run back to Tucker and take him far away. She had a U.S. passport and one for him as well. All she had to do was find the right opportunity, steal away from her “home” with Andre and the handmaidens, and beeline for her little boy. It had been years since she’d seen him, and it practically killed her to think of the many terrible things she’d done since to keep him safe and off Andre’s radar.
If Andre knew about him, he would kill Tucker.
Her heart started pounding from the direction of her thoughts, and she studiously and firmly shut her mind down. She’d learned to compartmentalize with greater and greater efficiency over the years and could almost make herself believe she lived a different life. If called upon, she could give one helluva performance, Oscar-winning, really, because it was less about acting and more about believing.
But how had she so foolishly believed in Andre? At one time he’d filled her thoughts, her heart, all her needs. If he’d been lost to her then, she might have killed herself like some tragic Juliet. She knew this to be true. She just couldn’t believe it any longer. Couldn’t feel it.
Tucker had done that to her. Her love for him was bigger than anything else. Had changed her. And it was such a fluke, the pregnancy. Not part of the plan, not part of her aim, her job. As soon as he was born there was a shift inside her. Afterward, even though she’d kept doing Andre’s bidding, playing her part, she’d kept the fact that she’d borne a child a secret from him. Even after Stephen’s death—especially after Stephen’s death—she’d had to come up with a plan for the future, one that didn’t include Andre. She’d done the only thing she could think of: she’d entrusted her son to the care of someone she believed in.
But she was going back for him soon. Tonight, maybe.
Cracking open an eye, she slid a look toward Andre. Her heart clutched and she gave a little gasp to see he was wide awake as well and staring at her speculatively. Lifting the arm he’d held possessively around her, he ran his index finger down her arm, sending an arctic chill through her that it took her considerable skill as a con artist to hide.
“You’re going to have to start being more honest with me, Teresa,” he said with that faint smile that spelled trouble for her in the future.
“About what?” When in doubt, pretend ignorance.
“About last night, for starters.”
“I went to the Boathouse to meet him and he came in, but he brought his wife with him.”
“And then what?” he asked silkily.
“I followed them back to their Laguna house.” She mentally crossed her fingers against the lie. The Laguna Beach house was several hours’ south and she hadn’t been anywhere near it, but she was counting on its distance to keep one of Andre’s spies—Naomi, probably, or maybe that psychotic bitch, Jerrilyn—from tracking her. “I might . . . be able to break in sometime . . . ?” she suggested.
“Do you want to?” he asked, climbing atop her.
An automatic protest fought its way up her throat. There was a time when she’d panted for his lovemaking. Back in the day when they were a team. Andre was a good lover when he wanted to be, and in the beginning he’d been just about perfect. But everything had changed since then. His style had definitely altered and now there was more impatience and dominance than any desire to please her. Maybe, with the other handmaidens so available, he just didn’t try as hard. Or maybe the frustration that had always fed him was growing too huge and he couldn’t be bothered with anything but his own, immediate pleasure.
He reached up and pulled the chain that held his ankh from around his neck, then slid the cross along her cheek and to her mouth. Then he pressed down harder until the ankh’s metal sides dug painfully into her bottom lip. Hard. A rise of panic made her insides quiver. She breathed in air through her nose and met his gaze deliberately. She had to act like her old self or he would know how much she’d changed.
“You have to stop lying,” he said.
Carefully, slowly, he pulled the ankh away and replaced it on the nightstand. She automatically sucked her bottom lip into her mouth. She could feel fury licking its way inside her; a hot wind that could consume her if she let it.
“Where were you?”
“I told you.”
He shook his head slowly. He’d taken his hair out of its band and it hung around his face. “You shouldn’t make me discipline you,” he said, sounding like a weary parent.
“I’m sorry,” she said. Her plan to leave became more cemented.
His hands slid down her body and he fit himself in the cradle of her thighs. They looked at each other and Teresa kept her face carefully expressionless.
Tonight, she thought. I’m leaving tonight.
Time was passing and Callie had managed to avoid his question about the bracelet, sticking with her story that a friend had given it to her. But he was right in that being the sticking point. If it was indeed the Laughlin heirloom, then it must have come through Teresa and logically that made her Tucker’s mother.
But where was she? And who was Aimee?
She knew West was biding his time, waiting for her to cough up the truth. Did she want to? Not yet . . . not until she knew what it would mean for her to give up Tucker.
“Well, I think it has to all be a strange coincidence,” Callie said. “If there’s a connection, I don’t know what it is.”
“You came here on your honeymoon.”
“Well . . . yes.”
“That’s why you chose Martinique now. Why you came back here.”
“That’s right.” She didn’t like the careful way he was approaching some train of thought that was clearly behind his questions.
“The accident, where your husband and son were killed . . .”
Callie took a careful breath. “You want to know about it?”
“I just want to know how you ended up here with the Laughlin bracelet.”
“I only have your word it’s a family heirloom,” she pointed out.
“True enough.”
Callie shook her head. She needed to end this conversation and get back to her apartment, find Tucker, and most of all, keep him safe. She said with as little emotion as she could, “They said another car struck us and sent our car over the cliff. Sean and Jonathan died at the scene. I was taken to a hospital.”
“They said?”
“The police. Whoever investigated the crash.”
“Do you know who that is?”
“You mean the policeman? No. I was in a hospital, and then I was . . .” Grief-stricken . . . sick with guilt and failure and pure misery. She had to bite down hard on her lip to keep from going into that abyss again, the one that was always waiting for her. She waited till the tide receded a bit, then managed to say in a nearly normal voice, “Nothing was the same. They were gone and I didn’t care how it happened. All that mattered was they were no longer with me.”
Callie squeezed her hands tightly together, damn near cutting off the blood flow. It was an effort to get herself to loosen her grip.
“I’m sorry,” he said, sounding like he meant it.
No, she thought. Don’t be nice to me. Don’t act like you care. She could manage if people weren’t nice to her, but if they were she lost all of her defenses. And she couldn’t afford to break down completely like she had when the realization had crashed down on her. She’d been a blithering idiot. Completely undone. And she’d ended up hiding from reality for a while.
“I was just wondering who checked out the crash.”
“I don’t know. LAPD . . . you probably have a better idea than I do.”
“Your husband chose Martinique for your honeymoon?” he asked.
“We chose it together.”
But had they? Callie remembered the brochures Jonathan had brought from the travel agency, and the way they’d bent their heads over the Internet together, planning for their future. Callie had been too happy to pay much attention to honeymoon plans. There was a weddi
ng to plan, and even though they’d kept it small—both of them had definitely wanted that—it had required the requisite organization, list making, phone calling and e-mailing. She hadn’t questioned Jonathan’s choice of Martinique, but now she wondered.
The reason she’d come back here was more because Sean had been conceived on their honeymoon, not because the trip itself had been such a fabulous time. She recalled distinctly how Jonathan would wander away from her and she would find him in the hotel bar, passing the time with the bartender and waitstaff. Yes, he made love to her and they had dinners together, but she’d sun-bathed alone a lot of the time, and she’d felt the first twinges of worry that she didn’t know her new husband at all.
Jonathan Cantrell had swept her off her feet, and she’d been flattered and overwhelmed by his good looks and wealth. She’d wanted so much to believe that he truly wanted her that she’d shut down her radar and fallen in love with him hard and fast. Or at least that’s what she’d told herself after Bryan left her.
Looking for love in all the wrong places.
Sean was the only reason she hadn’t left Jonathan in the years after the marriage. Jonathan didn’t love her, maybe hadn’t ever, and she kinda thought she’d made herself believe she was in love with him. In truth, neither of them had known each other very well.
“Jonathan and I honeymooned here.” She swept an arm to encompass the grounds.
“At the Bakoua Beach?”
“Yep.”
She wondered what time it was. Early afternoon, maybe two? It was time she got away from him. “Your turn,” she said. “You were let go for breaking up with your captain’s daughter.”
“Not the official reason,” he reminded.
“What was the official reason?”
“Captain Paulsen said I was too aggressive during an investigation.”
Her eyes moved to the small smear of dried blood on her leg. “Imagine that.”
“It wouldn’t have mattered what it was, it was just to punish me. But then Victoria laid down a convincing case and I didn’t give a damn about anything but finding Teresa and Tucker.”
“You said something new came to light.”
“Yeah, well . . .” He clearly didn’t want to talk about it. Instead, he said, “Teresa barely stuck around long enough to make Stephen’s funeral before she took Tucker away. Victoria always blamed her, but it was all conjecture. Everyone thought my grandmother was old and just making it all up, though she’s always been sharp as a tack. It took a lot for her to finally ask me to help her, since we’ve never been on close terms. That’s how much she wants Tucker.”
“She thinks Teresa’s to blame?”
“She thinks Teresa had a hand in the accident that killed Stephen.”
“And you do too?” No wonder he’d been so harsh in the beginning.
“She’s got some things to answer for. She didn’t waste a lot of tears over Stephen, and she took off with his son almost from the moment he was gone. She’s been missing ever since, probably by design.”
“You must have something more . . . ?”
“Suspicions. I just want to find her. Even if she’s not to blame, she’s completely self-serving, and I want to make sure Stephen’s son is okay. That’s what Victoria says she wants too, though I think she’d like Teresa to be declared an unfit mother.”
“What happened to Stephen?”
“A hunting accident. He was out with a friend. Something happened and Stephen got in the way when the friend’s rifle discharged. Shot him in the chest. Devastated the friend.”
“But . . .”
“I know. How is Teresa responsible. Victoria says she was having an affair with the friend. His name’s Edmund Mikkels.”
“And she got him to kill your brother?”
“Half brother. Not necessarily, but I believe she had an affair with Edmund. That’s just how she operates.”
“No wonder you wanted to kill me,” Callie murmured. “Well, I’m not her. I don’t have anything to do with any of this.”
His gaze, which had been centered on her face, slowly moved to the bracelet at her wrist. “Where can I find this Aimee?” he asked.
Callie struggled with herself. She wanted to tell him. She wanted to trust in him implicitly, but she wasn’t exactly batting a thousand when it came to her judgment of men. “All right, I lied. I picked the bracelet up at a pawnshop.”
The words were out before she even thought them through. Careful, she warned herself, wishing she could take them back.
“What pawnshop?”
“I—hmmm. It was in Barbados. I flew there first, for a couple of days, and the bracelet was on display in the window.”
“Barbados?”
“Yes.”
Lies, lies, and more lies. After giving him a straightforward and credible story about her past now she was lying. And she was such a terrible liar! But she wasn’t about to bring up Tucker yet. She believed him, to a point. Believed that, like herself, he’d doled her partial truths, and until she knew the whole story, she wasn’t going to say anything that she didn’t need to.
“Stephen gave Teresa that bracelet or she took it,” he insisted in a low voice.
“Maybe she pawned it,” Callie said.
“I don’t think so.”
Callie felt as if a cold hand had traced a line down her back. She’d made a whopping mistake. He knew she was lying.
“Who’s the friend who gave it to you?” he asked.
“I just said—”
“I’ll believe the first story.”
“Well, I can’t help that.”
They were at an impasse. “All right. I’ll take you back and we can figure the rest out.”
“What do you mean?”
He made an impatient sound. “What do you think I mean? I mean, you’re my connection to Tucker and Teresa. You need to get back and take care of yourself, and I need to repay you for all the trouble I’ve caused.”
“I’m fine. Truly.”
“You took a hit and you’re scraped up—”
“A misunderstanding.”
“You said I attacked you,” he reminded her.
“Well, I didn’t mean that, I was just trying to . . . goad you. But you’re absolutely right. I did this to myself.”
“What the hell’s going on?” he asked. “You’re being awfully agreeable.” He was looking at her with the same narrow-eyed suspicion he had earlier.
And suddenly she was done. Reaction, or the realization that anything she said to this man was dangerous until she had more information—both, probably—caused her to just shut down. Whatever interest she’d had in talking to him, and there had been some, she could admit that, she now felt none. She needed to leave. Get away from him. Pull herself together and keep Tucker safe.
“I’ll just use the bathroom to clean up.” She got to her feet and dusted herself off.
He rose to his feet to help her up the stairs but she waved him away as she picked up her carryall. In truth, her head had been filled with a dull ache for a while now.
“I’ll be a while,” she said.
“All right. I’ll wait at the bar.”
“No, I’ll come back.” She moved lithely away from him, pretending she wasn’t starting to feel the mass of bruises that were settling in from her earlier fall.
She wished she had a way to call Tucker on the phone, or at least Aimee, but she didn’t know their number, whether they had a phone, or a cell, or anything. She knew next to nothing about them other than Tucker was a sweet little boy she would lay down her life to protect, if necessary.
West stared after the woman who looked so much like Teresa. She’d lied to him, was still lying to him. The needle on his bullshit meter was flickering in the red, and he trusted his instincts completely. He’d been a cop for too many years to be bamboozled by an amateurish liar.
And Callie Cantrell, if that was truly who she was, was most definitely lying. About the bracelet for certain. Th
ere was no goddamned pawnshop in Barbados or anywhere else that had this piece, unless Teresa had pawned it herself, and that chance was slim to none. The bracelet was part of the Laughlin family collection that was catalogued, insured, and kept in a safe-deposit box. He might not be a true member of the family, at least in his grandmother’s eyes, but he sure as hell had been tutored in what they possessed, by his mother, his father, and Victoria, too.
It was probably closer to the truth that she’d gotten the bracelet from her friend, Aimee, if she was truly Callie Cantrell.
Well, fine. He’d figure it out one way or another. And he’d lied to her, as well. His cell phone worked internationally. He wouldn’t have come all this way without making certain he could communicate at will. He just hadn’t wanted to stop and call anyone on her behalf until he was completely certain she wasn’t Teresa.
And she wasn’t Teresa. That didn’t track. But how could this doppelgänger with the Laughlin bracelet not be involved ? That really didn’t track. So, how did she fit into this puzzle? His gut told him she was involved in Stephen Tucker’s abduction somehow.
Reaching into his pocket, he fingered his phone. He could call the number of the attorney she’d given him. Or he could call Dorcas at the department and get the details about the fatal accident on Mulholland that had killed a father and son. See if their name was Cantrell. See if a woman named Callie Cantrell had survived.
Pulling out his phone, he glanced at the time. Two thirty, and the day felt like it was getting hotter. Thank God for the breeze off the bay.