by Lori Foster
She understood. Heath had been near the house. He’d watched her, maybe followed her. It made her ill to think about it.
So they needed to think about something else.
Cupping Cannon’s face, she eased away. “Let’s go open that safe.”
*
A GUN, NOTHING fancy or unusual, just a .38 Smith & Wesson revolver stored inside a padded case. The big question, Cannon knew, was why Tipton had it put away so securely.
Before opening the case, he’d carried it to the kitchen table. Now they all sat around it, cautious, curious.
He thought of the note Tipton had left him. Selling will require emptying the house—and that will bring about different problems for her.
Was this the problem Tipton meant?
“Grandpa never took guns at the pawnshop.” Beside him, Yvette shifted. “Do you think he had it locked up because it was used for a crime?”
“That’s as good a guess as any.” He wanted to check it, see if it was loaded, but on the off chance it had fingerprints on it… The grip was black, the barrel polished. It looked new, not ominous.
No one touched it, just in case.
Armie straddled a chair. “Think we should go see Mindi?”
“I think,” Cannon said, “we need to call Logan and Margaret.”
From the kitchen doorway, a voice intruded. “That’s not necessary.”
As one, they turned to see Frank Whitaker standing at attention. Unlike at his office, he had razor-sharp focus now—and a 9 mm Glock. Cannon could see the magazine, and had no doubt it was fully loaded.
As he eased Yvette behind him, he asked, “How’d you get in?”
Whitaker held up a key in his left hand. “Made a copy.” In his right hand, he kept the Glock steady. “No need to see Mindi. She’s gone.”
“Gone where?” Armie asked, taking a step away from Cannon.
“No, don’t move.” The gun swung back and forth, encompassing them all. After pocketing the key, Frank used his forearm to wipe sweat off his brow. “I don’t want to hurt anyone, so please don’t force me to do it.”
Staying in the door frame, out of reach, gun hand extended, not all that relaxed, Whitaker indicated the table. “Take a seat. All of you.”
Cannon pulled out a chair for Yvette—behind him. “What do you want?”
“The case, first of all. Mindi was sure you had it, and she wouldn’t leave well enough alone. I told her it wouldn’t matter. I begged her to leave it be. But she wouldn’t stop….”
“You didn’t hurt her, did you, Whitaker?”
“Hurt Mindi? No, of course not. I love her.”
Cannon felt Yvette’s hand on his back, reassurance that she was still okay. With everything she’d gone through, no one would blame her if she fell apart right now.
But she didn’t. She stayed calm, stroked his shoulder, and he was so damned proud of her.
As long as she stayed safe, tucked behind him, he could handle anything else. “Where is she?”
“She left me.”
“Was she ever really with you?” Armie looked him over, from his balding head to his expanding middle. “Dude, seriously?”
“She loved me!”
“That what she told you?”
Damn it, Cannon knew exactly what Armie was doing. Drawing the fire.
Sacrificing himself, if it came to that.
Reclaiming Whitaker’s attention, Cannon said, “I knew something was going on between you two.”
“Of course you didn’t. Mindi told me she was getting closer to you—as a way to locate the gun, of course.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Cannon insisted. “I still knew. I’m guessing anyone who was ever around you two knew it.”
“How?” Desperate for a crumb, Whitaker stepped closer. “How did you know?”
“The way she looked at you. It was more familiar than an assistant to a boss.”
Softening, Whitaker smiled.
“What’s that got to do with any of us?” Armie asked.
“It has nothing to do with you.” He addressed Cannon. “But you…you didn’t sell everything as you should have.” He leaned to the side so he could see Yvette. “And you. I thought for sure you’d head back to California. So many times Tipton wanted you to stay, he told me so, but you never did. And now that he’s gone, now you decide to settle in?”
“We’ll all leave,” Cannon offered. “You know I have a house in Kentucky. I was going to ask Yvette to join me there.”
Yvette’s hand stilled against him.
“I wish that was true.” Slowly, Frank shook his head. “But she’s reopening the pawnshop, proof that she plans to stay. I knew eventually she’d find the gun. Don’t you see, I can’t risk having it discovered.”
Armie shifted. “How’d Yvette’s grandfather get it in the first place?”
Frank looked as if he wanted to shoot Armie right then, but he drew in a deep breath that tested the buttons on his dress shirt, then exhaled it with new calm. “Tipton and I were friends.” To Cannon, he said, “I told you that.”
“I remember.”
He nodded. “After my wife died—”
“After you killed her?”
“Not me!” Whitaker looked alarmed, insulted. He tugged at the collar of his shirt. “I told you, I don’t want to hurt anyone.”
“Then who?”
“Mindi. She said my wife had to go or we’d never be able to be together.” He swallowed audibly. “While I was in court, she…she took some of my wife’s things to make it look like a robbery, and then she shot her.”
Deadpan, Armie asked, “Ever heard of divorce?”
Whitaker shook his head. “I couldn’t, not without losing half of everything.” He swiped the sweat from his temple, his neck.
The man was sweating like a pig, his nervousness climbing the longer he talked.
Maybe because he thought he’d have to eventually kill them all?
“She refused to divorce me without making me pay, and Mindi refused to wait for me to work it out.” As if to convince them, Frank said, “I’m not a wealthy man! I’ve worked damned hard for everything I have, modest as it is. Half would only be… I’d be broke!”
“No way did my grandfather help you cover up a murder.”
At the quiet break of her voice, Frank looked past Cannon to Yvette’s angry face. “No. He wasn’t like that. He was a very good man.”
“Yes, he was.”
“One thing I don’t understand.” Cannon again blocked Yvette with his body. “Why the hell didn’t you just dump the gun somewhere?”
“Mindi.” Looking more miserable by the second, Frank nodded. “As my assistant, but acting on her own, she took a sealed box of my wife’s personal possessions to Tipton. She said she told him I was distraught and she was afraid if I got rid of the things, I’d later regret it.” He looked up, his eyes red rimmed. “She said it was leverage, that if I ever tried to turn her in for the murder, everyone would know I was involved, too.”
Cannon couldn’t fathom any man, much less an educated person of some means, being so stupid.
“And you still think you love her?” Armie whistled. “There’s no hope for you.”
“Armie,” Cannon warned. He did not want or need his friend to play the hero.
Tipton didn’t seem to hear him anyway. He stared toward them without really seeing. “Not knowing what was inside, Tipton agreed to hold it for me. I was going to get it back, but then he died….”
“He knew,” Cannon told him. “He was a good, honest man, and he knew you’d gotten involved in something you shouldn’t have. That’s why he had the gun—just the gun, Frank, nothing else—hidden in a lockbox up in the garage attic.”
Frank denied that. “No, he trusted me.”
“’Fraid not, pal.” Armie stood. “He was on to you—and who knows who he might have told? We only just found the key and pass code to the safe, but there could be other notes. You should book while you can.”
Shit. Cannon tensed, ready to charge the lawyer if it came to that. He wouldn’t let Yvette be hurt, but, damn it, he didn’t want Armie hurt either.
Alarmed, Whitaker took a step closer. “Was it in the letter he left you?”
“So you stole a key but didn’t read the letter?”
“I couldn’t.” His shoulders slumped and he sank back to lean on a counter. “Tipton had it sealed, so you’d have known….”
Miserable bastard.
“Did he ask you to stay?” Whitaker looked from Cannon to Yvette and back again. “Is that why you’re still here? He heaped on the guilt?”
Shit, shit, shit. Cannon said, “I’m here because I want to be,” at the same time Yvette asked, “What letter?”
“You should have gone!” Pushing away from the counter in a rush of frustration, Whitaker waved the gun. “It would have solved everything!”
“The pawnshop,” Cannon said, thinking back to that bucket of rags set by the door. “Did you and Mindi try to set that fire to drive us away?”
“I keep telling you!” Totally losing his cool, Whitaker’s voice rose to a ridiculously high octave. “It was Mindi, not me!”
“Mr. Whitaker.” After smoothing her hand over Cannon’s back again, Yvette peeked around Cannon. “None of this is your fault.”
He was breathing hard, sweat rolling down his jowls. “No, no, it’s not.”
Voice gentle and calm, Yvette asked, “Do you know where Mindi went?”
“Away.” He looked lost, forlorn, and jumped on the chance at an ally. “I don’t know where.” He dug in his pocket and extended a note in his shaky hand. “She left me this.”
Cannon panicked, thinking Yvette would go closer to get the note.
She didn’t budge from her seat. “What does it say?” she asked softly.
The note crumpled in his fist. “That she loves me, but she won’t go to jail for me.”
“And you love her—but there’s no reason for you to go to jail either.”
Afraid the lawyer might crack at any moment, Cannon stood, keeping in front of Yvette as much as he could. “It’s easy enough, Whitaker.” Moving slow so he wouldn’t provoke a reaction, he closed the case, fastened the lock and held it out. “Take it. No one will ever need to know.”
Undecided, Whitaker licked his lips. “I need to think.” Raising his gun hand, he used his forearm to push his glasses farther up the bridge of his nose. His gaze locked on Yvette. “I think I should take her with me.”
Cannon stared at him, saying with as much finality as he could, “No.”
“If she’s with me,” he reasoned, “neither of you will try to follow. You won’t call the cops either. You’ll just have to wait until I release her.”
His heart thundered. “That is not happening.”
Inhaling courage, ignoring Cannon’s protest, Whitaker nodded. “I think that’s what I’ll do.” He pointed the gun at Cannon. “Come along, Yvette, or I’ll have to shoot him.”
Cannon clamped a hand to her, keeping her back. Eyes narrowed. Pulse tripping. “I already told you, she’s not going anywhere.”
He lifted his chin. “I’ll shoot you.”
That was preferable to him taking Yvette. “No one dies from one bullet, and you’d better believe I’ll fucking take you apart before you get off a second shot.”
Whitaker worked his jaw, then transferred his gaze to Armie. “Fine, I’ll shoot that one.” He locked his jaw, his finger on the trigger—
Arm extended, Yvette stepped to the side. “Wait.”
Cannon lunged to stay in front of her.
Whitaker switched his aim.
And pandemonium erupted.
Another man crashed into the room, tackling Whitaker hard up against the cabinets so that his spine connected with the hard edge of the countertop. They went down in a twist of arms and legs, shouts and screams.
The gun went off twice, the noise deafening in the small kitchen.
Cannon covered Yvette as best he could while quick stepping her into the dining room and around a divider wall. There was another shot, and Armie barked, “Goddamn it!”
The acrid scent of gunpowder burned the air.
Fear left Cannon breathless. He grabbed Yvette’s shoulders, quickly looked her over, and other than wild eyes, parted lips and a pale face, she looked unhurt.
He turned for the kitchen—and pulled up short at the sight of Armie now holding the gun and still cursing a blue streak. On the seat of his jeans, toward the right side, blood seeped through the torn denim.
The wound didn’t look bad; Armie stood straight, not hunched in pain. His gun hand was steady, his feet braced.
“Armie?”
“I’m okay.” Without taking his gaze off the two men, he asked, “Yvette?”
In a shaky voice, she said, “I’m fine.”
With the worst of the fear over, the cold fury set in. Cannon told Yvette, “Stay put, okay?” and after her nod, he joined his friend.
“Move,” Armie told the two men. “Please, make one fucking move.”
Heath, his head shaved, his face covered in whiskers and what looked like a stick-on tribal tattoo, lay on his back gasping for breath, his arm held close to his side.
Battered, with blood blooming on his chest, his stomach, his shoulder, Whitaker moaned. His nose was swollen, his glasses gone, his sparse hair sticking out like the fuzzy feathers on a baby bird.
Armie worked his jaw. “Call—” he gestured, undecided “—somebody. Cops, ambulance. Whatever. That one—” he pointed at Whitaker “—got the brunt of it. Not sure he’ll make it. And this one—” he toed Heath’s thigh, making him moan “—pretty much came to the rescue, but look at the stalkerish bastard, all disguised and shit.”
From behind them, Yvette whispered, “I called 911 and Margaret.”
Crouching down, Cannon checked each man for weapons. Heath had a brand-new box cutter in one pocket, a bottle of pain pills in the other. He looked pasty with agony, down for the count, but Cannon didn’t trust him.
Even when he’d called, claiming he’d go away, he had to have been nearby. Probably surveilling the house.
Waiting for a chance to get Yvette.
“Watch him.”
“Gladly.”
He turned to Whitaker. The man seemed to be fading fast, the pool of blood expanding around him on the floor, his eyes glazed, unseeing.
Wishing for a way to spare her, Cannon twisted to Yvette.
She stood only partially in the connected dining room, her bottom lip caught in her teeth.
“Did you tell them to bring an ambulance?”
Eyes still round, she nodded. “I…” She pointed to the cabinet. “I could get some towels?”
Tears dampened her eyes, but she didn’t let them fall. Amazing. “Yeah, that’d be great.” If she was up for helping, then maybe staying busy would make this easier on her. She wasn’t a dummy. She, too, had to realize the significance of Heath being here now. But she forged on anyway.
He’d underestimated her so many times. Never again.
Rushing to the cabinet, she kept her attention off Heath and on Whitaker as she dug out a stack of hand towels.
Cannon finished checking over the lawyer. No other weapons, but he took his cell phone and that note from Mindi. It wasn’t signed, but surely they could match her writing.
Heath whispered, “Yvette?”
Face carved of stone, she kept her back to him.
“I’m sorry, baby. For everything.”
Cannon saw her bottom lip start to quiver, and he stood to put his arm around her. To Heath, he said, “If you actually have it in you to care, leave her alone.”
Heath closed his eyes, gave one short nod—and passed out.
Whitaker made a gurgling sound…that didn’t last. Cannon was pretty sure the bastard had just died.
“Here.” Armie shoved the gun into Cannon’s hand, snatched up one of the dish towels and started off in a ho
bbling gait.
“What are you doing?”
He paused, head dropped forward, then grunted a laugh. “One of those flying bullets grazed my ass. No, it’s not bad, and yes, it hurts like hell. So if you’ll excuse me?”
Yvette whipped around. “Armie!”
“No, doll. I was joking about showing you mine just because I saw yours.”
She squawked again, now for a different reason. “Armie.”
Laughing, he told Cannon, “I’d seal the deal on that if I was you.” Then he limped on down the hall and slammed the bathroom door.
Seconds later, the police, the ambulance and Lieutenant Margaret Peterson-Riske all showed up.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
A WEEK LATER, in the middle of the day, with sunshine streaming in through the open bedroom windows, Yvette went to her knees in front of Cannon. Not for the first time.
And he’d ensure it wasn’t the last.
So many things he’d thought would level her—the death of Whitaker, the upcoming trial for Heath who, luckily, remained behind bars. Mindi’s arrest as she’d tried to leave the state.
Her grandfather’s letter—which she’d read at least a dozen times.
But she was far more resilient than he’d ever imagined. And so damned sexy, he wasn’t sure how much more he could take. With the threats behind them, she seemed determined to enjoy her newfound sexuality to the fullest.
With him.
That she proved insatiable only made him love her more.
“I hope,” she said around nibbles to his hip bone, “you’re thinking of me, and only me.”
“You, and everything about you.” He tunneled his fingers into her long hair, then forced himself to only hold her head loosely, without urging her mouth where he needed it most. This was her turn to do what she wanted, how she wanted.
As long as she only wanted it with him.
With every day that passed, she’d grown bolder in bed—and out of it. Knowing how much Yvette enjoyed sex with him made him feel far more like a stud than kicking ass in the SBC ever had.
“Every time,” she whispered, trailing her open hands over his thighs, her open mouth over his abs, “I see this amazing body of yours, I want you.”