by Nancy Bush
“I don’t give a damn what you call yourself today. I want my money back, and I want you in a cell. What the fuck did you give me?”
She shook her head, afraid to argue with him, her brain racing.
“Come on. We’re going to the boat. . . .” She felt something hard in the small of her back and she took a step forward.
Chapter Sixteen
Callie’s heart raced as she moved forward. This couldn’t be happening. They were right in the hotel lobby. It would be laughable if it wasn’t so frightening. Was he thinking of taking her hostage? Where was his car? Her heart was galloping in her chest. “You’ve made a mistake,” she said again.
“No.”
“I’m not Teresa, if that’s who you think I am.”
He whipped her around and glared into her eyes. He was tall and had a close-cropped salt-and-pepper beard surrounding a florid face. His clothes were casual but expensive. His anger was palpable, but she’d never seen him before in her life.
And he got a jolt looking her square in the face, too. She saw it in the widening of his eyes. “What are you up to?” he demanded.
“I told you. I’m . . . Callie Cantrell.”
“Shut the fuck up. This is some trick!”
“No . . . no trick.”
“Who are you?” he demanded. “Where’s Tara?”
Tara was close to Teresa. Callie’s mind jumped from thought to thought. “I don’t know. I don’t know.”
They were deep into a tense conversation. To the outside world it might appear as a lovers’ quarrel. “You know where she is. This is some game.”
Callie just stared at him mutely. She didn’t have any argument that seemed to wash. But since it was the second time in two days that she’d been mistaken for another woman, she suspected there was some connection between Tara and Teresa. “When did you see Tara?” she asked.
“Last night.” He glared at her, unwilling to admit his mistake just yet.
“You were with her last night?” Callie repeated, her pulse leaping.
“Ah, you know her!” He jumped on that.
“No, I’m looking for someone who looks like me as well. Her name’s Teresa.”
“Old Sal said you were hustling here before, about six years ago. He recognized you, too.”
“But it wasn’t me,” she reminded him, and he stared into her face in consternation.
She realized the hard object pressed against her spine was not a gun but the end of a table knife, which he now held loosely in his hand.
“What’s going on here?” West’s voice rang out behind him. The guy whipped around, sizing West up.
“It’s all right,” Callie said quickly, before the situation could get further out of hand. “He thinks I’m someone named Tara.”
“Yeah?” West assessed the man coldly. She realized he was poised on the balls of his feet. He looked dangerous and determined, and she was glad to see him.
“You part of this con?” the man asked West.
“No con.” West carefully gestured toward Callie, not making any sudden moves. “Her name’s Callie Cantrell. I’m sure she told you that.” He flicked a look to her over the man’s shoulder and she nodded vigorously.
The man slowly started to relax his belligerent stance. “Egan Rivers isn’t a man to toy with,” he said.
West said, “You’ve just made a mistake.”
“If I have, I apologize. Remains to be seen.” He kept his gaze on West several moments longer, then shook his head and stalked back inside, toward the far end of the bar.
“You okay?” West clipped out, his eyes following Rivers.
“He was with someone named Tara last night who looks like me.”
He gave her a quick look. “You think Teresa’s here?”
“Maybe. What do you think?”
“I need to talk to him.”
“I want to go with you.”
“You’re white as a ghost,” he said, already in motion.
“I’m fine,” she answered stubbornly, following after him as he swept through the bar fast, his strides eating up the distance. She had to pick up the pace to catch up with him. Rivers was already out of sight, having charged through the bar and out the side door that led to a series of stairs down to the private docks behind the hotel that were shared by the Bakoua Beach and several other hotels that ringed the bay. West burst through the door, but Rivers was moving fast down the steps as Callie slammed through after them.
He thought I was Teresa. Teresa must have used the name Tara and had taken him in some way.
Egan Rivers moved quickly for a big man. West raced down the steps two at a time. “Hey!” he called.
Rivers threw him a dark glare over his shoulder and kept moving.
“Hey, slow down,” West called. “I’ve got some questions for you.”
His answer was to double his speed.
Behind West, Callie said, sounding out of breath, “Teresa must be in Martinique!”
“Damn it.” West didn’t really want to tackle the man, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to let him get away. The boats were lined up with narrow wooden docks running off the main access. Rivers turned onto one, took two steps, then seemed to think better about revealing his destination because he stopped short and turned, his arms up, his fists clenched at his sides, his face full of belligerence.
West slowed immediately. He was sure the man didn’t have a gun, but there was no reason to test that theory if he didn’t have to. He eased to a stop and lifted his hands. “Hey, look, I don’t want to fight. Just want to ask a question or two.” He heard Callie coming up behind him, her sandals slapping the boards, her breath coming fast. He wished she’d gone to the table instead of chasing after them, but there hadn’t been time to negotiate the point. “We’re looking for someone named Teresa who resembles Callie and has a connection to Martinique. You thought she was someone named Tara, which sounds a lot like Teresa. Maybe they’re one and the same.”
“You’re both in it with her,” he said, glaring at West, then Callie, who had moved to just behind West’s right shoulder. Rivers slowly dropped his hands, but his stance was still confrontational.
“Not sure what you mean,” West said.
“The scam, man.” He pointed a finger at them. “I’m calling the police.”
“We’re not involved in any scam. I thought Callie was Teresa at first, too, but she’s not. The hair’s the same . . . body build. But you know she’s not the woman you’re looking for.”
Egan Rivers had been breathing hard, too, and now he inhaled a long deep breath. “I don’t really give a shit what your deal is.”
Callie said, “You can maybe help us find her. That’s all we want.”
“You met Tara last night?” West asked.
His face turned a brick red in remembrance. “Picked her up at the hotel bar.” He gestured to the Bakoua Beach. “I spend a lot of time around here, Pointe du Bout, Trois-Îlets,” he said, referring to the entire area on this side of the bay. “Had an Internet sales business that I sold. I bought that boat.” He inclined his head toward a vessel with a shiny, navy-blue hull toward the end of the dock. “She came on to me last night. We had some serious fun but she slipped me something. I was out cold. Got up this morning and all my cash was gone.”
“Who’s Old Sal?” Callie asked.
West looked at her, but Rivers answered readily enough. “Man, he’s been around Trois-Îlets for years. Maintains the docks, does some work around the hotel grounds. Everybody knows him. He asked me this morning about Tara. When I told him about her, he said she used to work this area, five, six years ago.”
“Work this area? That’s what you meant about a con?” West asked.
“Yep. Went after guys with money. Sal said she’d been gone a while, but he recognized her right off.” He was staring at Callie now, examining her closely. “What happened to your jaw?”
West’s gut twisted with remorse as Callie said, “And here I tho
ught I’d managed to cover it up with the miracle of modern makeup.”
Rivers actually smiled and the rest of his aggression melted away. “Guess you’re not with her.”
“We’re not,” West said.
“Wanna come to Castaway for a drink? That’s what I’m gonna do.” With that he turned and headed for the boat, the stern of which was backed to the dock. West looked at Callie who nodded. He took her hand and they moved forward together.
Rivers led the way onto the boat, then gallantly offered a hand, helping Callie aboard, as West brought up the rear. It was about forty-some feet and had a back salon with a built-in banquette with red cushions and a bar surrounding a tidy galley. There was something stripped down and masculine about it, function over form, that spoke of Egan Rivers’s apparent bachelorhood.
“What’ll you have?” he asked Callie as he slipped behind the bar.
She glanced at West, then said, “White wine?”
Rivers declared sourly, “I think that bitch drank all the chardonnay. No wait. There’s one more bottle.” He pulled out a bottle from the refrigerator, uncorked it, then brought up three plastic glasses from a lower cupboard and filled one for Callie. “I’m having Maker’s Mark,” he said to West. “That work for you?”
“Sure.” As Rivers set up their two glasses, West asked, “Old Sal told you that Tara used to work these hotels?”
“Yep.”
“Where can I find him?” West asked.
“Oh, he’s around. Mostly during the day.”
“What else did he tell you?”
Rivers slid a glass to West, picked up his own, took a deep swallow. “Look, I’m sorry I threatened you,” he apologized to Callie. “I don’t like being taken, y’know? She stole from me. Didn’t get a lot, but I think she drugged me. But we had some fun, first, so maybe I shouldn’t care.”
“What kind of fun?” West asked.
Rivers gave him a knowing look. “The best kind.”
West had an instant mental image, but it was of Callie and himself. “Old Sal say anything else?” he asked, dragging his thoughts back.
“She and her partner left when things started to get hot. They just disappeared one day.”
“Partner?” West asked.
Rivers rubbed his beard and grimaced. “Sal caught him on a boat once, watching Tara and some other guy getting it on. Mostly she picked up guys and went to a hotel room, but this time was on a boat. The partner was spying on ’em, but Old Sal caught him at it and called him out. Peeping Tom just sauntered off, like no big deal. The guy who owned the boat heard their voices but was kinda busy. When he surfaced and found Old Sal, he was outraged, but he was into Tara, or whatever her name is, and let it go. Wasn’t gonna give her up. Later, he told Sal he was pretty sure she knew the guy was watching them and played into it. Made me worry about last night a little, but hell, Tara was doing things to me at the time that I wouldn’t’a wanted to give up, either, even if I’d known.” He lifted a hand to Callie, a silent apology. “Sorry about scaring you. I wanted to kill her after talking to Old Sal.”
West reached for his cell phone and the big man turned back to him. “What’re you doing?” Rivers asked suspiciously.
“I want to show you a picture, that’s all.” West clicked on the phone and scrolled through his photos until he found the one with Teresa in it. Cautiously, Rivers moved close enough to get a good look at it.
“Looks just like her, but then so does your girl.”
“That’s Tara?”
“That’s what I said. Who’s the guy?”
“My half brother. Stephen Laughlin. The woman in the picture’s name is Teresa Laughlin.”
“She his wife?” he asked.
“She was. Before his death.”
“Oh hell, man. What happened?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out,” West said grimly.
Callie’s heart stuttered as she sipped at her glass of wine and listened to Rivers’s tale unfold. Thoughts danced in the back of her mind.
Teresa picked up men at bars in Martinique . . . Teresa . . . Martinique . . . Jonathan . . .
She suddenly remembered seeing some papers Jonathan had left on his desk. A quick view before he came back into his office, swept them up and yelled at her for being a sneak. She’d tried to defend her innocence, but he’d been coldly furious and she’d left the room, injured. She’d forgotten that fact. It happened right before the accident. Had it been something about the money Jonathan had spent from the mortgage? No, it was . . . an address?
An address for Teresa DuPres.
Oh, God. Her head hurt. This was one of the missing pieces she’d tried so hard to remember after the accident. Jonathan knew Teresa. She could still practically hear Jonathan calling out to her at the coffee shop that day, “Teresa!”
It had never been Marissa. It had been Teresa. Teresa DuPres Laughlin.
Rivers was leaning against the galley cabinets and now he focused on Callie. “Where do you fit in to all this?”
Callie felt like she was in another world. “I—don’t. Not really. I just got mistaken for Teresa. . . .” Even to her own ears, her voice sounded strained. She could feel West’s attention sharpen on her.
Jonathan knew Teresa. West’s Teresa! It wasn’t just a vague thought in her head. He’d had her name and an address written down. He must’ve met her in Martinique, maybe fell for her. She recalled how shocked he’d seemed when he’d called out to her that day and then realized he’d made a mistake. But he’d pursued her anyway, hoping for sexy, dangerous, morally ambiguous Teresa, a woman who fit into Jonathan’s adrenaline-charged world of wealth, sex, and fantasy far better than Callie ever could. He’d tried to re-create her with Callie, but it hadn’t worked. She’d been a poor substitute, a pale copy of the real thing.
“You okay?” West asked.
It seemed so obvious all of a sudden. Her marriage to Jonathan failed in large part because Callie couldn’t measure up. Not that she was blameless. She’d wanted a fantasy too: Jonathan Cantrell, handsome, sophisticated, worldly. “I’m fine,” she said tautly.
“If she’s working these parts again, you’ll find her,” Rivers predicted.
“Old Sal mention what this partner looked like?” West asked.
“You’ll have to ask him yourself.”
“I’ll do that.”
Callie could feel a buzzing in her ears. She’d barely touched her drink, but she felt half drunk. Could she remember that address? Could she, if she tried really hard? It had been in California . . . Venice, maybe? Not Los Angeles, but a nearby suburb?
“Your brother meet her here?” Rivers was asking West.
“At a Los Angeles bar,” he answered.
“Ahh, so, that’s where she went,” the bigger man said. “But now she’s back.”
“Do you mind if I walk outside to the prow?” Callie asked. “Just want to look at the bay.”
“Have at it,” Rivers said.
West looked like he wanted to follow her, but she headed him off with, “I’ll be right back.”
She tried not to hurry, but she needed some time to herself to think. West had maintained all along that there was a connection between her and Teresa and now she knew what it was. There was a chance she could possibly be making more of this than there was, but she didn’t believe it. Right down to her heels she knew Jonathan had wanted her to be Teresa.
He booked their honeymoon in Martinique because that’s where he’d met Teresa. And Callie had thought it was so romantic, had even come back here because it was when she’d been so happy! She’d wanted to reconnect with those feelings and it had all been a lie!
You came because of Sean . . . not because of Jonathan, she reminded herself.
She shook her head, unwilling to even cut herself that break. She’d been such a blind fool. It was embarrassing.
She had to move carefully over the narrow walkway along the side of the boat. Her face felt hot, emotion firi
ng her blood. She turned her face to the breeze, seeking relief, but her thoughts churned forward relentlessly. On the one hand she wanted to sit down and collapse, give herself time to process all her feelings. On the other hand she wanted to jump up and down, scream, tear at her hair, and have an out-and-out fit at her own susceptibility.
She needed to tell West what she’d figured out. Needed him to know about the connection between Teresa and Jonathan. They had to have known each other before she was married to Stephen. They met in Martinique, she was certain, but had their affair ended here? Or had it spilled over to Los Angeles? They were both in the same city for a time. Had they reconnected? Maybe even after he was married? After she was married? With an uncomfortable lurch of her stomach, Callie recalled how Jonathan had always been on the phone, making “secret” calls that he never explained. She’d tried to ask him about them a time or two, but he’d always brushed her off.
Oh, God. There was more to her connection to Teresa than she’d ever dreamed.
She stood on the prow, looking across the water, feeling slightly sick. To her right, a man and woman were standing in the rear of the boat next to her. The cabin lights illuminated the bay so that the water glowed light green. His arm was slung over her shoulders companionably as they both sipped wine from fluted glasses. They glanced over at Callie and she nodded to them though she barely saw them. Her vision was turned inward.
She needed to ask West when Stephen met Teresa.
What about Tucker? Has she come back for him? What if she takes him away?
What if she’s trying to do that right now?
Vaguely, she realized something had been bumping against the boat. She started to turn back, fired by the certainty that Teresa was taking Tucker away, when the woman in the boat next to her let out a scream that sounded like a siren. A chill ran up Callie’s back. She shot a glance at the woman and saw her stumble back from the edge of the boat, her hands clasped to her chest while the man tried to steady her. Her gaze was fixated on the water.
A body floated into the light. Not a swimmer. Someone wrapped in a black dress and sweater. As Callie watched, the face turned slowly upward, mouth open, dark reddish-blond tresses sliding across the slackened flesh of a familiar face.