by Kat Martin
“I know the cops are looking at your friend Beau for the murder,” Jase said. “But from what you’ve told me, I think both men were killed by the same guy. No prints, no DNA, both hits quick and deadly. Gotta be a pro, and if it was, could be Vaughn was involved.”
“Sounds about right,” Cassidy said.
“So maybe there’s two different things going on here. Maybe Milford was killed to keep him quiet, but the senator was killed for a completely different reason.”
“Like what?”
Jase grinned. “I got no idea, sweet thing. It’s your job to find out.” His grin slid away. “Be careful, Cassidy. Guys like these play for keeps.”
* * *
Franco Giannetti eased out of his parking space on Blackburn Street, following the flashy metallic-gray sports car. It sure as hell wasn’t hard, not with the careful way the woman was driving. He couldn’t believe her boyfriend had let her borrow his fancy Lamborghini. Damn thing had to be worth a fortune.
He’d been watching Reese’s house since he’d come up with his new plan. Today he’d followed the woman from the house to her office, where he’d made a run at her before. He’d watched her park and go inside, found a spot and settled in to wait.
An hour slipped past. He fidgeted, shifted in the torn vinyl seat, trying to get comfortable. It was chilly in the truck, but when a payoff was involved, Franco could be a patient man.
He turned on the engine, ran the heater to take off the chill, amazed it worked in the old beater truck. All he needed was to catch a break and the job would be done.
He was beginning to get bored when she finally came outside and climbed into the pricey sports car. He followed the vehicle at a safe distance, but no way was she going to spot him, not in the old white Chevy pickup he’d driven out of the junkyard. The way he did business, all the car needed was an engine that would run.
He pulled over when she slowed and parked in front of a flower shop down the street. She ran inside and came back out a few minutes later carrying a pretty yellow bouquet. He followed her again, saw her turn into the parking lot of a four-story brick apartment building and waited while she went inside.
He still hadn’t completely formulated a plan. He was keeping his options open, a technique he preferred. Today might not work, but if he got the chance, he was taking the woman out.
Franco felt a rush of excitement as he leaned back in his seat. This job was right up his alley, a way to make a sizable score all at once. But the challenge, the adrenaline rush of getting away with it . . . well, sometimes it was just downright fun.
* * *
Though Jase had pressed her for the lunch she owed him, Cassidy had put him off, promising she’d make it up to him next week. After leaving the office, she’d stopped at the flower shop, then swung by her place to retrieve some fresh clothes.
She fumbled with the key to her loft apartment, finally got the door open, and walked inside. She’d been gone so long the place smelled musty. She cracked some windows, although it was chilly outdoors, went into the bedroom and packed a rolling duffel, adding a few less conservative, sexier outfits than she’d taken to Pleasant Hill.
Her stomach was growling so she heated a can of chicken noodle soup, popped the top on a Diet Coke, and sat down at the counter in her small galley kitchen.
The apartment had a nice open feeling enhanced by the high ceilings and living-dining combination. Eventually, she’d get around to buying some accent pieces to brighten the plain beige sofa and chairs she had purchased when she’d first moved in.
She finished her lunch and was ready to head for the cemetery, but before she left, she wanted to call her dad. He was retired from the police force, but still worked part-time in the security business. They chatted awhile, which always lifted their spirits on this dismal day.
She phoned Brandon, a cop in New Orleans, but he didn’t pick up, so she left a message. She hoped she could reach Shawn in Afghanistan. She’d try to Skype him when she got back to Beau’s.
It was late afternoon by the time she was in the car, driving toward the small country cemetery outside Kaufman, about forty minutes south of Dallas. The sky had darkened as heavy clouds rolled in, but it hadn’t started raining yet.
The little cemetery occupied a piece of land outside the city limits of the town where her mother had been born, and other members of her family were buried there, too. There was a place for her dad already paid for next to her mom, but she didn’t want to think about that.
It was peaceful as she wandered among the tombstones. Only two other people were in the cemetery and they were standing around a headstone some distance away. She set the flowers on her mother’s grave, stood there awhile, and found herself talking about Beau.
“He’s a terrific guy, Mom. You would really like him. The thing is, he’s in love with someone else, a woman who died a long time ago. Since I deserve a man who’s in love with me, not a dead woman, I don’t think it’s going to work out.”
Just saying the words made her heart pinch. She was already more than half in love with Beau. But talking to her mom seemed to help, so she sat there awhile longer. She hadn’t realized how late it was getting until she noticed the sun dipping below the horizon and it began to rain.
Hurrying to the car, she climbed in and started the powerful Lamborghini engine, settled back and strapped herself into the seat. The sound of the engine made her smile, along with the sweet gesture Beau had made in letting her borrow one of his most prized possessions. Knowing how valuable the car was and how much he loved it, she still couldn’t believe she’d had the nerve to accept his generous gift.
It was raining hard by the time the Lambo rolled through the tall wrought-iron gates enclosing the graveyard. There was another car parked just outside, an old Chevy pickup with WASH ME traced through the dirt on the door. Maybe the rain would give it a long-overdue cleaning.
She wondered who the driver had been visiting, wondered if he had lost a member of his family, too, and felt a twinge of pity.
The pickup lights went on as she drove the Lamborghini along the narrow road down the hill. The truck pulled in behind her. The pavement was slick and the road was curvy, so she was taking it slow.
Too slow, apparently. The old Chevy speeded up behind her, coming up fast in her rearview mirror. She pressed down on the gas, but the road was too twisty to go very fast and no way was she risking a crash in Beau’s expensive car.
She made the first of a series of turns, but the pickup stayed right on her tail.
Idiot. Any trace of pity fled. There was nowhere to pull over, no way to get off the road, and with him so close, no way she could stop. What the hell did he want her to do? She speeded up a little more, but so did he.
She was beginning to get mad. She drove a little faster, then braked for the curve ahead. There were lots of trees, so she needed to be careful, but the pickup didn’t slow, just kept coming, roaring up behind her. She couldn’t believe it when he rammed her bumper hard enough to jolt the car, denting the back for sure.
Oh, God, Beau was going to kill her.
She never should have borrowed it. What in the world had she been thinking? She glanced in the mirror, saw the pickup rushing toward her again. Was he drunk? On drugs? A chill went through her. Or was it something else?
She thought how close she had come to being killed in front of her office. This wasn’t the same vehicle, but if the hit-and-run hadn’t been an accident, this could be another attempt.
Cassidy fought the wheel. Adrenaline poured through her—not the fun kind, the scared kind—and her hands started sweating. If Beau had been driving, the sports car could have handled the speed and the curves, but she wasn’t a race-car driver, and the pavement was wet and slick. She had to go faster, told herself she could do it.
She had two brothers. Brandon had taught her to drive in his souped-up ’66 Chevelle. He and Shawn had goaded her until she’d learned to handle the car to their satisfaction.
> As the truck raced up behind her again, she hit the gas and the Lamborghini shot forward as if it had wings. For a moment, she left the pickup behind and satisfaction rolled through her. But there was a sharp curve up ahead that dropped off into a field on one side, and no way could she keep up her speed.
She slowed and the pickup roared up on her tail. He rammed her just as she went into the turn. The rear end fishtailed, she hit the gas to correct the slide, which worked until the car hit a pothole and skidded sideways.
The pickup rammed into the passenger door, sending the Lamborghini careening off the road. The car shot into the air, spun, hit the ground, flipped and rolled, and there was nothing she could do. She clung to the wheel, kept her head down as the sports car landed on its roof and the airbags went off, but the car just kept rolling.
On the third roll, something hit her in the head and she blacked out for a moment, came to as the Lambo righted itself and jarred to a halt. She was dizzy, her mind fuzzy, but the pickup seemed to be gone. She couldn’t see any headlights in the mirror anywhere behind her, but she’d wrecked Beau’s beautiful car.
Cassidy felt the warm trickle of blood running down her forehead and tears filling her eyes. Then the world went black and she felt nothing at all.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Beau paced the floor outside the intensive care unit of the Presbyterian Hospital in Kaufman. He thought of the crash and felt sick to his stomach.
He’d driven home from the office, thought Cassidy might get there ahead of him, but when he arrived, the Lambo wasn’t parked in the garage.
He’d tried her cell, but it had gone straight to voicemail. He purposely hadn’t called her earlier, determined to give her some space. He understood what she was going through, figured she’d feel better by the time she got home.
He had just begun to worry when the police called. They said there’d been an accident, that the victim was a woman named Cassidy Maryann Jones. She was in intensive care at the Presbyterian Hospital in Kaufman. That was all they knew.
He’d been frantic. He’d called the hospital but he wasn’t immediate family so they wouldn’t tell him much. He’d driven the Ferrari the forty miles to Kaufman like a madman, phoned Linc on the way—he had no idea why—and told him what had happened.
His friend’s deep baritone had calmed him a little. “Take it easy,” Linc had said. “You’ll find out what happened when you get there. Carly and I are staying in Dallas this week so we aren’t that far away. We’ll meet you there.”
“You don’t have to do that. I’m okay.”
“We’ll see you there.” The line went dead.
Beau’s hands tightened around the steering wheel. He should have known his friends wouldn’t let him handle this alone.
The evening traffic and the heavy rain forced him to slow down. He’d considered taking the helicopter, but making the arrangements, then meeting the chopper, would have taken as much time as driving, and he preferred just getting on the road.
The minutes dragged past. By the time he arrived, his stomach was tied in knots. He pushed through the doors of the two-story brick building, strode up to the reception counter, and asked for a patient named Cassidy Jones who had been in a car accident.
Behind the counter, a gray-haired receptionist with reading glasses perched on her nose checked the name on her computer. “The patient is in intensive care. Take the elevator up to the second floor. Check in at the nursing station. Someone there will tell you where to go.”
He turned and started walking, skipped the elevator, and took the stairs two at a time to the second floor. When he arrived, he went straight to the nursing station, spoke to a nurse in green scrubs with short auburn hair.
“I’m here to see a patient named Cassidy Jones. They said she was on this floor.”
“She’s here. The doctor is in with her now. What’s your relationship to the patient?”
“I’m . . .” A friend didn’t sound right. Cassidy was way more than that. They might not let him see her if he was only a friend, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to pretend to be her brother. “I’m her fiancé,” he said. “Can you tell me her condition?”
“She’s listed as stable. That’s all I know. As I said, the doctor is in with her now. He’ll talk to you as soon as he comes out. There’s a waiting room down the hall.”
Beau thanked her and headed in that direction. There was no one else in the room when he pushed through the door, but he couldn’t make himself sit down. He swallowed, replaying the day in his head, wishing he hadn’t let her borrow the car. He’d been sure she could handle it. She’d driven the Lamborghini before and hadn’t had any problems.
What if she’d died? What if he’d gotten her killed?
His eyes burned. He pressed his thumbs into the sockets and rubbed them. He remembered the crash at Le Mans, remembered lying in the hospital bed, waiting to find out if his friend had survived the crash. Remembered the terrible moment he’d found out Joe Markham had died.
His breath hitched. He sank down on a blue vinyl sofa, elbows on his knees, his head dropping into his hands. He didn’t pray often, but he said a prayer for Cassidy, hoped it would somehow help.
His head jerked up when the door swung open and Cain and Carly walked into the waiting room. At six-foot five, two hundred twenty pounds of solid muscle, Linc seemed to take up all the space in the room. Carly was blond and pretty, strong and competent, the perfect match for his best friend.
She walked over to Beau, sat down next to him, put an arm around his shoulders, didn’t say a word.
“How is she?” Linc asked.
“Stable. That’s all I know.” He blew out a breath. “It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have let her drive the car. It was raining. Sometimes a powerful car like that can get away from you. I just . . . today was the day her mother died. I wanted to cheer her up.”
Linc sat down in a chair and leaned toward him. “It’s too early to blame yourself, Beau. You don’t know what actually happened.”
His throat felt tight. He didn’t care what had happened. He just wanted Cassidy to be okay.
The door opened again and a pair of uniformed police officers walked into the waiting room, one older, with a fringe of light brown hair, the other young and dark, probably Latino.
“Beaumont Hamilton Reese?” the older cop asked.
Beau came up from the sofa. “I’m Beau Reese.”
“You’re the registered owner of the Lamborghini involved in the accident?”
“That . . . that’s right. Cassidy borrowed it for the day. Do you know if she’s okay?”
“The doctor’s still in with her.”
“Can you tell me what happened?” Beau asked.
The officer pulled a notepad out of his pocket and checked his notes. “Apparently a farmer was working outside his barn when the car went off the road. He called 9-1-1, then went to see what he could do. She was unconscious, but he could tell she was breathing. The car was upright so he decided to wait for the ambulance.”
Beau tried not to think of Cassidy, strapped in and unconscious, surrounded by darkness in the middle of a muddy field.
The officer studied his notes, looked back at Beau. “The first officers on the scene thought it was a single car accident. Driver missed a tricky turn on a slick road in the rain. But now that they’ve had a chance to examine the site more closely, it doesn’t look like that’s what happened.”
Beau frowned. “What do you mean?”
“It looks like the Lamborghini was hit from behind. The driver of the other car wasn’t paying attention or maybe he was drunk. We don’t know. The Lamborghini spun out, slid sideways, and was T-boned by the car behind. Looks like the vehicle slammed directly into the passenger side door. The Lamborghini flipped and rolled a couple of times. The accident happened on a curve, so the car landed in the field beyond. The ground had softened with the rain, which helped.”
“The farmer didn’t see the accident,”
the Latino cop added; Rodriguez was printed on his name tag. “He just saw the vehicle go into the field. He was there when the police and ambulance arrived.”
Beau thought of Cassidy inside the spinning car, the vehicle completely out of control. He knew what a crash that bad felt like, knew the fear.
A wave of nausea hit him. “Do you mind if I sit down?”
“Sure, no problem.”
He sank down on the vinyl sofa, leaned back and raked his hands through his hair. A thought struck. “What happened to the driver of the other vehicle?”
“The car, a white Chevy pickup, was found abandoned a few miles down the road. Turned out to be stolen, reported a couple years ago. No sign of the driver.”
A chill went down his spine. “The driver fled the scene?”
“That’s right. Car was stolen. Like I said, he may have been drunk. We don’t know. We’ve got no description so we can’t put out a BOLO.”
The knot returned to Beau’s stomach. The police believed it was an accident, but Beau now knew it wasn’t. Cassidy had been a target. It was the second attempt on her life in the last few days. Someone was trying to kill her.
He thought of her hooked up to some machine in intensive care, and prayed whoever had done it hadn’t succeeded.
* * *
Cassidy opened her eyes. A bag of fluid hung next to the bed, dripping liquid through a needle into her arm. A heart monitor beeped a steady rhythm. That, at least, ought to be good news. But her head was banging as if her brain was trying to escape her skull, and her eyelids weighed a thousand pounds. She reached up, touched the bandage on her forehead with a shaky hand.
She was in the hospital. She was injured but still breathing. The final moments of the crash came flooding back. The pickup slamming into the side of the car; the Lamborghini flying through the air, spinning, rolling, landing in a muddy field. She didn’t remember anything after that.
Her mind went to Beau and she tried to imagine what she would say to him. The door was pushed open even as the thought formed, and there he was, so handsome and dear her heart squeezed. His face was lined with worry, his black hair mussed, his gorgeous blue eyes intense.