Complete Mia Kazmaroff Romantic Suspense Series, 1-4

by Kiernan-Lewis, Susan

  She took more shots of the driveway.

  Do I know what I’m doing here? What I’m waiting for? Is this a stakeout? She dropped the camera in her lap and her shoulders sagged in resignation. Or am I just a pathetic, jealous girlfriend trying to catch a glimpse of my boyfriend’s new love? The question seemed to suck the energy right out of her. Her eyes were still on the driveway but her hand reached for her car keys in the ignition.

  That was the moment she saw the car inch down the driveway toward the street.

  At first, she wasn’t sure she was really seeing it. She’d been there for nearly three hours with only the leaves falling from the trees and a few housewives trundling by in their SUVs to photograph in the way of movement. The car—not Jack’s—was a silver Lexus SUV. Thankfully, the windows were not darkened and Mia could see there was only one person in it. Without thinking, she tossed the camera in the passenger’s seat and cranked up her car, praying the SUV would exit and drive away from her. If it did, Mia would be able to drive in front of the house to see if Jack’s car was in the driveway.

  The car backed out and drove in the opposite direction, away from Mia. As she passed the drive, she could see it was empty. So unless he was parking in the garage, Jack wasn’t there.

  Mia felt a lightness in her chest as she followed the SUV winding slowly out of the neighborhood. She stayed out of sight on the residential streets, just catching the tail end of the SUV as it turned corners until it made its way to Peachtree Road. She breathed a sigh of relief. Now, as long as she kept a couple of cars between them, she could keep the silver SUV in sight.

  If only I’d kept the camera focused on the driveway, I’d have a shot of the driver.

  All the more reason not to lose it now. She switched lanes to keep the SUV in view. She drove three car lengths behind it as it navigated down Peachtree through the heart of Buckhead. Whoever was driving the SUV didn’t appear to be in any kind of hurry.

  If it is Sandy, I’ll see what I’m dealing with. If she’s drop-dead gorgeous, well, fine. All the more reason for me to walk away graciously…and hate Jack to the end of my days for being the shallow, lying, dirtbag that he might well be. She sternly forced the train of thought from her mind.

  Stop it. I refuse to crucify him until I have all the facts.

  The SUV turned off Peachtree Road onto West Wesley. Mia frowned. That’s odd. What the hell is down here? I thought it was mostly warehouses. Maybe they turned them into lofts? She sat behind the SUV at the traffic light at the intersection at Howell Mill. The SUV had its left turn indicator on. Mia had no idea where the vehicle was going now. An Atlanta native, she knew the city as well as most but had never had much reason to venture to this side of town. Warehouses, parking lots, and, thanks to the recession, a whole lot of boarded up wholesale operations and manufacturing plants.

  The traffic thinned out as the SUV turned onto a road called Glenbrook Drive. It started to rain, but as Mia drove past the street she was able to see the SUV’s taillights fire up bright red halfway down the road. She turned around and drove back to Glenbrook just in time to see the SUV—without its indicators on now—take a right turn about seventy yards down the street. Saying a prayer of thanks, she turned onto Glenbrook, the rain pounding her car like miniature jackhammers. Crap, was it hailing, too? Her windshield wipers were cranked up as fast as they would go as she approached where the silver SUV had turned.

  As she hesitated at the mouth of the street, she saw the SUV, looking like a ghostly shroud in the grey rain, stopped in a small parking lot midway down the street. Because of the rain, the driver of the SUV kept its headlights on, making it easy for Mia to see exactly where it was.

  Mia turned her own lights off and drove down the street. Using the rain as cover, she was sure the movement of her car would be unnoticeable to the SUV. Besides, it was now parked parallel to the road. Mia pulled up onto the sidewalk within thirty yards of where the SUV was parked. There was nobody around. She grabbed her camera with the telephoto lens and aimed it at the driver’s window. As soon as she brought the image into focus on her viewfinder, she saw the driver clearly.

  It was her.

  Mia’s excitement ratcheted up and she fired off a dozen photos of Sandy as she sat in the driver’s seat of the SUV.

  What the hell is she doing here? Is this a rendezvous?

  Mia waited. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw movement in the parking lot that quickly materialized into the form of a large man.

  She’s cheating on Jack!

  Mia fired off another dozen photos of the man as he ran up to the SUV, pulled the passenger door open and climbed in. Because of the rain, she couldn’t see his face—or hers, really—but she could see their conversation. The man grabbed for Sandy, but whether amorously or threateningly it was impossible to tell. Mia gasped as she watched the two “talk.” The man waved his hands, and at one point Mia saw him pound the dashboard.

  She didn’t know what it meant. But she photographed it. The problem was, because of the rain she couldn’t see clearly. In frustration, she set the camera aside and pulled out the new one. It had a weather bag, which she quickly stuffed the camera into. This camera wasn’t for long distance, which was fine. What Mia needed now was accuracy. She needed to see who the hell was inside that vehicle. And to do that, she needed to get closer.

  She only had a light windbreaker with a hood with her in the car but it would have to do. Besides, she would dry off. It was more important to keep the camera dry. She slipped out of the car and locked it, the new camera on her shoulder, her eyes scanning which bush she could run to for cover in her attempt to get closer to the SUV without being seen.

  Crouching, she ran to a large azalea bush in the near corner of the parking lot. From there she could see there was a narrow alley that seemed to lead behind the warehouse that the SUV was parked in front of. If she could come at them from behind the warehouse, she’d be invisible right until the moment where she could pick her vantage point. She saw a spot no more than ten yards from the SUV—right in front of it, if she could get there—where she could take all the photos she wanted, warts and all.

  Mia jogged down the alley and ran around the warehouse. She saw nobody. Only an idiot would be out in this deluge. Even so, there was evidence of homeless life. A cardboard box disintegrated in the downpour, soggy blankets were draped and wadded up in front of it. A shopping cart lay on its side.

  As she came up around the other side of the warehouse, she saw the SUV in the distance, an amorphous grey shadow but still illuminated by its headlights, which created a glowing aureole around it. She slowed her advance, squatted in front of a large metal garbage can, and pulled the camera in front, adjusting the weather shield.

  She could see both of the people in the car clearly. Sandy was blonde and pretty. No surprise there. Her face was twisted into an argument, fierce and unhappy. The man she was arguing with was big, his hair cut short, his own expression furious and animated. The two were obviously fighting.

  Mia snapped her pictures. So. A lover’s quarrel. I don’t know what it means, but perhaps Jack would like to know about it. Perhaps these pictures will make all kinds of sense to Jack. The thought gave her a satisfying feeling; at the same time she cringed, knowing these photos would hurt him, too.

  Karma, baby. She continued to snap pictures of the two in the front seat of the SUV.

  You waltz off with my virginity, Jack, I serve you up a heap of hot, steaming comeuppance.

  Mia felt the water pour down the front of her jacket. Her sneakers were sopping wet and her jeans were heavy with water. But somehow, she didn’t feel good at all about what she’d just discovered. Because somehow she knew it was going to make Jack really, really unhappy.

  Guess I’m no good at tit for tat. She lowered the camera. Revenge sucks. Especially if you kind of love the guy you’re getting revenge on.

  The camera suddenly jerked out of her hands from behind, pulling her back onto her butt. As sh
e turned to scramble to her feet, she felt an explosion of pain smash into her face. Blinking stars and darkness rocketed into her head, obliterating all light.

  Chapter FOURTEEN

  The pain seemed to emanate from everywhere at once. Her face was a rage of pulsating fire. The stabbing agony radiated to her limbs like a series of electric shocks. Mia pushed off the ground with her hands, trying to get to her feet. The man kicked her again. She toppled over onto her side, her belly exposed. She couldn’t breathe.

  Gasping for breath, making sounds like a hurt animal, she edged away from him. Her leg muscles tightened and released in spasms. He was African-American, his eyes flashing white in the gloom of the rain. He backed away, the strap of her new camera dangling from one bony shoulder. His clothes were sodden rags, plastered to his skin. Even from the distance that separated them, Mia could see he trembled in the cold rain.

  Was the SUV still there? Mia turned her head in time to see its taillights disappear in the rain. Had they seen her? She stood, her hand pressed to her side. The fire of her bruised ribs permeated her whole body.

  The rain beat down harder. She touched a tentative finger to her left eye. It was already puffing up. Peering in the direction of where her mugger had gone she saw two figures morph out of the gloom.

  She needed to get the camera back. The pictures…

  Four shadowy figures moved toward her.

  Pressing her elbows into her sides to contain the pain, Mia hobbled out to the parking lot. She looked over her shoulder. The shadows receded. With fiery cramps stitched into every step, she stumbled back to her car, praying it was still there.

  *****

  What else was there left to do? If the bastard didn’t call back to reschedule, Jack had nothing to go on—no leads, nothing. Why hadn’t the kidnapper shown up? What the hell was their next step now? Jack picked up Sandy’s phone. He had already tried reverse dialing the calls and gotten a no longer in service message. Clearly the calls from the kidnapper were made from burner phones that he’d apparently trashed after each call. Eugene’s number kept recycling incoming calls to voice mail. He’d obviously either ditched it or was just refusing to answer.

  Jack stood in the kitchen of Sandy’s house. It was early evening. He hadn’t eaten anything all day. He was sure Sandy and Vernetta hadn’t either. He pulled out his own phone and called Summer Auto Parts in Valdosta. It wasn’t much to go on. It wasn’t anything to go on. But it beat sitting here with his head in his hands doing nothing.

  “Auto Parts,” a thick Southern accent drawled.

  “I’d like to speak to Eugene Gilstrap, please,” Jack said.

  “Not here.”

  “Can you tell me when he’ll return?”

  “Who’s this?”

  “I’m a friend of his,” Jack said.

  “He ain’t coming back any time soon.”

  “Can you tell me if he’s still employed there?”

  “I ain’t telling you squat.”

  The line disconnected.

  Great customer service. So was Eugene still in Valdosta? It sounded like he’d taken a leave of absence. Which would make sense if he had to drive to Atlanta to kidnap his stepdaughter and terrorize his ex-wife.

  Jack opened the refrigerator. He’d been relieved to see Sandy go out this afternoon to her weekly prayer group. And surprised. The Sandy he knew fifteen years ago wasn’t into Bible studies.

  I guess we all grow and change. The fact was, if there was ever a time to pray, now was definitely that time. When Sandy got home she went straight to bed, which pleased him. The last few days had turned her into a trembling, nearly hysterical shell of herself. He’d been tempted to take her by the hand and tuck her into bed, but there was the very definite possibility that would cause more problems than it fixed. He had a habit of being too paternalistic. God knows Mia accused him of that all the time.

  He hated to admit it, but maybe Sandy was a full-grown woman capable of deciding for herself when it was time to rest. Clearly that was the case, because after three days of napping sitting up on the couch she finally opted to close her eyes in her own bed and sleep. Hey, there’s a thought. Leave people to their own resources and they’ll eventually do the right thing.

  Like he believed that for a red-hot second.

  He shut the refrigerator door and looked at his phone, still in his hand. What he wouldn’t give to be able to tell Sandy when she woke up that something had happened. Something good. That he’d been able to take at least one step forward in bringing Twyla home. He scrolled through his missed calls. Jesse had called again. He hated not calling her back but he wasn’t up to the subterfuge, and besides, she could always see through him anyway. Knowing Jessie, she’d forgive him. Now if only her daughter were so accommodating.

  A voice mail from one of his private chef clients popped up and he cursed. He’d forgotten to cancel her and the dinner party in question was this weekend. Even if the kidnapping were resolved by Friday, he still wouldn’t be able to pull it off. Especially if things went south…

  He glanced away from his phone and his eyes landed on a photo of Twyla on the refrigerator door. While her outfit was a little too old for her in his opinion, she definitely had a beautiful smile—all dimples and crinkly eyes. Burton eyes. He touched the picture.

  Jack could remember to the day, to the hour, where he was and what he was doing when Sandy called him to tell him she was pregnant. Sixteen years ago. The thought he was going to be a father had been a sickening one. At the same time it had, perversely, sounded like a great idea.

  It didn’t matter. Sandy wasn’t calling because she wanted Jack involved in the baby’s life. On the contrary, she was calling to tell him she needed him not to interfere.

  Knowing you, I figured you’d put two and two together and I don’t need your math skills ruining my life.

  I’d like to be there for you, Sandy.

  I’m married, Jack. You ‘being there for me’ would seriously damage my chances of staying married.

  Three months ago you said that it wasn’t a real marriage.

  I’m sorry, Jack. I need you to respect my wishes on this. Please stay out of our lives. Please.

  Eventually, he’d heard from his mother that Sandy and her husband had finally been blessed with a child. For months afterward he scoured the Internet hoping Sandy might upload a picture to one of the social media sites. Something that would let him know what his daughter looked like, who she looked like, maybe a caption telling if she was a cheerful baby, a serious child.

  And every now and then, Sandy had. It wasn’t much—a school photo here, a birthday party there—but it was enough to remind Jack that he was somebody’s father. Even if his child never knew it. Eventually, over the years, he’d managed to largely forget the fact. When her birthday—or Father’s Day—rolled around he noted the event: silently, secretly, sadly. And the rest of the year he never let thoughts of her form. He’d planned to anonymously donate to her college fund when the time came—until Sandy won the lottery and it became clear his contribution, anonymous or otherwise, would not be needed.

  He didn’t blame Sandy. She did what she had to for everyone concerned—mostly her, Twyla and Eugene. Jack couldn’t have any expectations of consideration. He and Sandy hadn’t been careful. Somebody would pay the price for that. Turns out, it was Jack. And only Jack.

  Except now that the truth was out, everyone would pay: Twyla, Sandy, Jack and Eugene, too. Jack rubbed his nose. It was the guilt of it. In the end, that’s what it always came down to. He could ask himself all day long why he didn’t just bring in the cops over Sandy’s wishes, why he was playing it her way when, in his gut, he knew it was wrong.

  Guilt will make you do crazy things. Things you know are bad. Things you know will only make you feel worse.

  Jack sat at the kitchen table, enjoying the unusual quiet in the house with both women upstairs sleeping. His eyes strayed back to the picture of Twyla. There was another one next to it
of Twyla with Sandy. Twyla was older in this one, and not smiling. Sandy was trying to smile for the both of them. It was a painful photograph in a lot of ways.

  He was sixteen years old the first time he laid eyes on Sandy Gunderson. She was a blonde goddess, dressed in a cheerleader’s skirt so high he could see her panties when she skipped and bounced down the long halls of Wolfe High. Well-shaped, athletic legs that ended in that perfectly formed bottom. It seemed she couldn’t take a step—not to her locker or across a crowded cafeteria—without that skirt flouncing saucily over her hips and revealing that little glimpse of panties in the same color as her skirt.

  It wasn’t until a whole lot later he realized most of the flouncing and bouncing was calculated to get him to do exactly what he ended up doing—fall, mesmerized, in love with her. He knew she was snobby, all the cheerleaders were. He knew she wasn’t a scholar, and he couldn’t care less. He knew she was narcissistic and self-absorbed, and didn’t blame her one bit. They’d dated for two years, until he graduated and left her behind when he enlisted. She said he broke her heart and he let that story stand but he knew it wasn’t the truth. He felt she deserved the grace of the lie. Clearly, she felt the same way.

  Your first is always special. Whether you rewrite history to create the memory you can live with or whether it really was all you remembered it to be.

  Sandy was his first love. And in some ways, he’d never really let her go.

  He shook the memories of the ghosts out of his head and rubbed a tired hand across his face. No point in any of this now. He needed to focus on the problem in front of him—the problem with no obvious recourse.