by Avery Flynn
Checking out the sleeping Hank from the corner of her eye, she wondered if she could get him to do a DMV search for Robert Reynolds to see if another lived in Stickland. Only two thousand three hundred and forty-one people lived in the tiny farming community as of the last census, meaning the chances of two unrelated Robert Reynoldses living in the same small town were pretty slim.
Hank shifted in his seat and laid his head down on her shoulder. She bobbed her arm, trying to dislodge him, but he didn't budge.
“Stop moving.” He smacked his lips together. “I promise not to drool.” Snuggling in, he never opened his eyes.
His weight pressed against her, solid and unyielding. Claustrophobia should have set in, the fear of being trapped clawing at her. Instead, his body warmed her and calmed her nerves. It felt good. Too good. Shit, she couldn't even scoot by him in the plane without getting hot and bothered. If she enlisted his help in this mess, she'd be another notch on his bedpost within a week. Then she'd have to stop avoiding her childless future and face it head on.
Not yet. Beth chose to put the pain into a little box and shut it away. Someday, maybe.
Tossing the page onto the file folder spread open on the tray table, she harrumphed in frustration. Using her unhampered left arm, she pulled another page free of the file.
Her heart stopped.
A yellow note covered in unfamiliar handwriting was stuck to the corner of the paper.
I'm begging you. Sell. It's gone too far to stop. There's no other way. Please, before it's too late!
The cramped words were scrawled across the two-inch-by-two-inch note, written in blue ink with an unfamiliar heavy hand that had broken through the bright paper on the exclamation point's dot. Peeling it from right to left, she eased the note away from the larger page. Her hand shook as she held it up. Heart hammering, she tried to push down her growing panic.
Who?
When?
How?
She didn’t have a single answer.
That was it. She needed Hank's help. She didn't have a choice.
But she did have a little time. Three days to be exact; the length of the conference. As soon as she was back home, she'd ask for Hank’s help. Even if it was out of his jurisdiction, he'd know what to do.
Decision made, her breathing mellowed. After all, nothing was going to happen to her while she was in Vegas.
Chapter Eight
Success was only a dead girl away.
A woman, really, but to Sarah Jane Hunihan, they were all just girls yet to be turned into cynical bitches by fate's cruel sense of humor.
Alone in a bathroom at Las Vegas’ Paris Casino, Sarah Jane allowed herself a moment to let her well-maintained facade slip. Sliding down the gold cap of her mauve lipstick until it clicked, she smacked her lips together with a little pop. Glancing at the ornate, gilded bathroom mirror, Sarah Jane adjusted the upturned flip at the end of her steel-gray bob.
She'd had the cut forever and refused to give it up. Every time she looked in the mirror it was a reminder of her former self. Her weak self.
Let the world think she was a silly old woman obsessed with stamping, scrapbooks and church bake sales, it made getting away with things so much easier. For twenty-two years, she'd craved revenge. When the Lakota announced they were building a reservation casino, her plans for retribution fell into place.
Straightening her spine, just starting to develop a curve, she strode to the bathroom door. Decades ago, she’d transformed herself from that simpering secretary Ed Webster ruined.
Still, she held on to the pain and humiliation all these years later. The bitter emotions twisted together to destroy the numbness that had sunk into her very bones when she’d realized she'd meant nothing to him. She never had.
He'd never planned to leave his wife as he’d promised. All she had to do was give up their secret baby, he’d whispered. And she’d done it, learning too late what a lying bastard he was. Some other woman had swaddled their son. Counted his toes. Breathed in the baby-powder scent of his soft skin.
It had taken years to find her son. But she’d done it. And what did his bastard father do? He’d made noises the boy wasn’t his, but Sarah Jane knew better.
Ed had ignored and denied his own son in favor of Beth Martinez.
Beth had come to work at the Webster and Carter Estate Firm, her office a few doors down from Sarah Jane’s. She’d turned into Ed Webster’s favorite. Not their son, who he refused to acknowledge. No. He showered his attention on that little bitch.
Now Beth was the only obstacle standing in the way of complete revenge. That changed tonight. She’d leveraged the plentiful results of twenty years of pinching pennies on the land deal that would destroy Ed. No one, especially not Beth Martinez, would take it away from her.
Sarah Jane’s arthritic fingers protested when she wrapped them around the doorknob. If only the pain medication wasn't so expensive, she'd take it every day, but she sacrificed for the greater payoff. Tomorrow the little yellow pill and her successful removal of Beth would ease away the pain.
Grinning, she joined the throngs of people strolling down the fake cobblestone street at the Paris Casino. She took in the sky-painted ceiling, forever daylight, with its puffy white clouds and the smell of freshly made crepes from the shops. A tarted-up woman in sky-high spiked heels bobbled across the uneven floor. Dumb girl.
Sarah Jane had been like her once. Not anymore. Her orthopedic shoes kept her feet planted firmly on the ground.
Her phone jingled above the piped-in French music of the casino. “Hello?'
“Something's going to go wrong.” The worry in his voice carried over the music.
“Well, hello to you too, my sweet son.” Again? How many times could she have the same conversation with him? “You worry too much, darling.”
His foster mothers must have coddled him constantly for him to have grown up to be so whiney. Yet more fault to lay at his father's feet. If only she'd tracked her son down sooner.
“But, she's not going to get hurt. Right?” The tension in his voice spilled through the phone line.
“Of course not. We're just going to scare her a bit.” Pausing for effect, she sat on an upholstered bench inside a store selling gaudy, overpriced shoes. “It is we, isn't it? You haven't decided to abandon your mother now that we've finally found each other? I don't think I could survive that.”
“You know I wouldn't do that to you.” The words rushed out of his mouth, concern tightening his tone.
“You told me all about being stuck in foster families who didn’t understand you or love you like real ones would. I’ve tried to create a home for you. A real home. The kind of safe, loving home you missed out on when you were shuffled from family to family, but I’m just not feeling like we’ve developed a true mother-son bond.”
“What have I done?”
Picking up a ridiculous Lucite stiletto heel, she wondered who would wear such a tasteless item. “I don't know; you seem so distant right now. I was devastated when your father forced me to give you up and then deserted me. When I found out your adoptive parents abandoned you to foster care, it nearly killed me. I’m sure I can't live through that again. If you left me now, why, I don't know what I'd do.”
“I'm not like him. I love you.”
She replaced the shoe before the saleswoman could try to corner her. “Do you?”
“Yes.”
“Then stop fighting me on this.” She couldn't keep the snap from her voice. “You know it's for the best.”
“But she's not going to get hurt?”
“Hurt? No, I would never harm another human being. You're breaking my heart for even thinking that.” Sarah Jane kept her mouth shut and stared at her nails while she counted. One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three Mississippi. She wouldn't get to fifteen before he broke. Four Mississippi. Five Mississippi. Six Mississippi.
“I'm sorry, mother. I am.”
Smothering her smile, she forced a tremble
into her voice. “So you trust me?”
“A hundred percent.”
Hearing the submission in his voice, she strolled out of the store and toward the casino's front door. “Then know everything will go as planned. I have to go now, darling. It's time for dinner.”
She clicked the phone shut and dropped it into her purse before he had a chance to say goodbye. What a namby-pamby man he'd become. Things would have been different if she'd raised him. She'd have done it right. Once her plan came to fruition, she'd make up for that lapse.
When Sarah Jane had discovered Beth would be in Las Vegas for a national conference, the solution came to her immediately. A small-town girl gets taken down by big-city violence. It couldn't be any more perfect if Beth had planned her own death. She'd whispered the right words into the right ear at the law office and here she was, ready to put the final part of her plan into motion.
Stepping off the cobblestones onto the bright carpet of the casino, she tried to ignore the tackiness around her. God, she loathed Vegas. The bright lights and gaping tourists everywhere. Street people shoving escort advertisements into your hand as soon as you stepped outside your hotel.
She swallowed her distaste for this tacky cesspool because she deserved the money. No. She deserved her revenge. He owed her and it was time to pay. Two decades was a long time to wait for justice. And the look on his face when he realized what she’d done? That she’d caused his ultimate downfall? Priceless.
Sarah Jane dipped her hand inside the small side pocket of her gold brocade jacket and caressed the paper envelope, so small it could only hold the GHB. It had been so easy to steal it from Julie Hallerson’s medicine cabinet during a scrapbooking meeting. Julie wouldn’t miss a little of it, she’d had plenty of the prescription on hand to treat her fibromyalgia. Best of all, no one would be able to tie Sarah Jane to the drug if the plan went awry.
The hotel doors whooshed open in front of her and a blast of hot air landed heavy on her face. The valet opened the door of the waiting yellow taxi.
“Where to?” The driver's beady dark eyes watched her in the rearview mirror.
Time to get into character. She let her spine slouch to accentuate the curve in her upper back. Exhaling, she raised her eyebrows and curled her lips into an open, grandmotherly smile. The driver relaxed and smiled condescendingly.
“The Orion, please. My friend is having a celebratory dinner.”
And soon she'd be celebrating as well.
Chapter Nine
An hour after the company-sponsored dinner, Beth sat stone still on a couch inside Club Reaction, the world swerving around her in a blurry haze. Across the low bar table, Sandy, the estate attorney from Ohio, zoomed in and out of focus as she droned on about her latest case to a rapt audience.
The conversation filtered into her brain like a legal jargon game of Mad Libs. She clanked down her champagne flute on the small table in front of her harder than she’d intended.
A scantily clad buxom server appeared immediately at her side. “Would you like another glass?”
Beth’s stomach turned a few times. “No thanks. One's my limit.”
That must have been some champagne to have affected her so strongly. Closing her eyes to block out the scene spinning in front of her, she focused all her mental energy on taking slow and steady breaths. Relaxing back into the cushions, she let the sensual pleasure of the velvet against her bare legs spread throughout her body until she felt as if she could melt right into the couch. Really, would it be so bad to just let go like that?
A man's booming laugh—one she knew as well as her own—rang out over the crowd's noise and made her body vibrate with want. Her skin sizzled with anticipation. Like a woman in a dream, she accepted the inevitability of making that man hers.
She eased her eyes open and searched for the source of the laughter on the club's crowded dance floor. From her vantage point in the private seating area above the main bar, she scanned the fuzzy crush of barely clothed women and their muscle-bound, perfectly coiffed dates. A sea of faces moved in time with the music's staccato beat, but the laughing man wasn't among them.
Her palpable disappointment at not being able to find him confused her, scaring her into a moment of clarity. Something was seriously wrong. She'd had so much fun talking at dinner, she hadn't eaten much. Maybe the mixture of low blood sugar and a glass of champagne had submarined her.
Digging her short, unpolished fingernails into the palms of her hands, she fought for control. A sudden clammy sweat dampened the nape of her neck as she sought out a focal point to center herself. She picked Sandy's bright red lipstick, which stood out even in the club's dim light. With her gaze locked onto Sandy's mouth, everything stopped spinning and a heavy lethargy descended. Her eyelids drooped.
A tiny scream of panic echoed in Beth's head. She couldn't pass out in front of her colleagues.
She had to get out of here, go back to her room a few hotels down the Las Vegas strip and sleep it off before she humiliated herself in public.
This is why she hardly drank. She hated the out-of-control fuzziness of it all. But she'd only had one glass of champagne to celebrate the success of her lecture during the National Estate Attorneys Association's annual conference. Still, she felt as if she'd gulped down the whole bottle of bubbly like a sorority girl with a bottle of peach schnapps during pledge week.
She pushed herself upward into a standing position, fighting the inertia swamping her limbs. A wave of dizziness overwhelmed her. Beth threw her arms out in an attempt to counteract her wobbling knees and weaving upper body.
The unavoidability of her fall penetrated her hazy mind, spiking her heart rate.
She tilted toward the table littered with empty martini glasses, and before momentum swung her onto her face, a strong arm wrapped around her waist.
Relief noodled her limbs and she sagged into the solid chest behind her. A familiar woodsy scent teased her senses. A quick visual sweep of the area revealed everyone's attention remained focused on Sandy, her low-cut dress and her tale of estate-planning woe.
“Thhhhh-ank you.” Beth’s thick tongue slurred out the words.
“No problem.” Her white knight turned her around. “Let's get you back to your room, lightweight.”
Her heart skipped. Just when she thought she'd been saved from disgrace, fate laughed in her face and heaped mortification upon her.
Hank. Of course, he had to have been her rescuer.
Cheeks flushed with embarrassment, she tried to wriggle free. His heat seeped through the thin material of her navy-blue wrap dress. Although it was closed tight, allowing only a sliver of skin to show, Beth felt exposed and vulnerable. As she looked up into his hazel eyes, the world stopping turning. Deep worry lines carved crevices into his forehead.
“Not a good idea unless you want to fall flat on your face.” He pulled her tighter against his hard body.
Unable to stop herself, she brushed a thumb across his warm brow, and the wrinkles smoothed beneath her caress. A thrill skittered down her spine. Why did she always fight the attraction? Damned if she could remember. She wiggled closer to him, brushing against the growing bulge in his pants.
His fingers flexed against the curve of her waist. “Be careful, Beth.”
“Why? I'm careful too much.” She rubbed her hand against his hard biceps.
“But you aren't in the condition to deliver on the promises your delicious body is making to mine,” he whispered in her ear.
He was right, but the instant rejection stung nonetheless. “Oh, look who's got sh-tandards all the shudden.”
“Honey, you look near comatose. Any other time…”
His gruff voice sounded far too close to her ear, and she couldn't deny the hot surge of want, but she sure as hell didn't need his help. Determined to make it to her hotel on her own, she pushed away. The move set her off balance, and she stumbled backward. Hank yanked her upright.
“Seems you save damsels in distress even
when you're out of your jurisdiction, Sheriff.” Ed Webster turned to Beth. “Are you okay?”
Hank twisted to face her senior partner, and heat climbed up Beth's cheeks as she faced the superior smirks on three of the firm's junior partners. Phil Harris, Mason Carter and Charles McMillian chuckled and sipped their bourbon.
“Nice one,” Mason said.
Phil slapped Mason on the back. “Yeah, where's your posse, Sheriff?”
“Cut it out, you two.” Concern wrinkled Ed’s brow. “Do you need some help?”
Ed was the last person Beth wanted to witness her humiliation. Well, make that second-to-last.
Hank effortlessly turned Beth toward the door, moved a hand to the small of her back and guided her forward. “See ya later, Ed.”
They wove their way through the throng of people. Hank's large hand pressed firmly against her lower back, bedeviling her nerves and making her knees quake for reasons that had nothing to do with champagne and everything to do with lust.
Dry desert air enveloped Beth after the club's automatic doors swished closed behind them. She staggered to the line for a cab and stumbled into Hank's arms. Her breasts pressed against his wide chest, her head on his shoulder. The woodsy amber scent of his cologne took her back to that summer night before her junior year in college.
His hands had skimmed over her bare skin above her jeans. His kiss had consumed her, a dream come true for the geek who'd worshiped him since she was twelve years old. She'd never forget the pop, pop, pop of her button-fly jeans being pulled open. When only one button remained, she’d told him she was a virgin. He’d stopped, telling her that he couldn’t do it and adding some bullshit about it being the right thing to do.
Hank pushed her upright. “Just how much did you drink tonight?”
Seeing three of him, she focused on the one in the middle. “Jusss one.”
The raised eyebrows on the three Hanks said plainly he didn't believe her.
Beth stomped her foot, the action making her list to one side. “Is true you jig berk.” That didn't come out right. “I mean big jerk.”