by Donna Young
Celeste smiled at the memory as she swiped the sponge over a sandwich plate, rinsed it and set it in the drainer. Even at seventy, her grandmother had refused to give into Father Time. “She’d wanted to get behind the wheel of that Porsche ever since you’d given me the car. I wasn’t in any shape to drive and I had just enough humor left to let her.”
Nausea cramped her belly.
“Just that once,” she whispered, knowing if she’d said no, Grams might have survived. A bowl slipped from her fingers and shattered on the floor. “Damn it!”
“Gypsy, it’s not your—”
“Yes, it is.” She spaced out the words, more to convince herself than him. “Don’t you even dare think about offering me sympathy. I don’t want it.”
She wanted to take her comment back, but the hard planes of his face told her it was too late. Instead, she grabbed the wastebasket beside the kitchen door.
“Anyway…” Kneeling by the counter, she began tossing pieces of glass into the garbage. “I grabbed the ring, threw my purse on the front seat and shut the door. I hadn’t taken more than one or two steps past the car when she must have turned on the ignition.”
Celeste sat on her heels and abandoned all pretenses as the memories rushed back. “The explosion blew me clear.” She remembered the vicious body slam of heat. “Grams screamed. I raised my head from the pavement and saw her trying to get out, her hands…”
She shook her head trying to dislodge the sounds. “I must have passed out. Jon told me that the heat was so intense, it set a few more cars on fire. No one could get close for a long time. Later they found me under a pickup truck. Apartment Security records showed only my signature. And since Grams’ body was burned beyond…” She cleared her throat, forcing the images back. “The firefighters automatically assumed Grams was me. By the time they found me, I was covered in blood from a head wound. Before they figured out I was more than an innocent bystander at the wrong place at the wrong time, Jon had worked his government magic and I had died from the head trauma.”
“How long were you in my apartment?”
“Grams and I were there a half an hour. No more. Just enough time to write the note and take my things.” Ignoring the trembling of her fingers, she finished picking up the glass.
“Giving the killer plenty of time to rig the Porsche.”
“He used the ignition to detonate the gas tank.”
“Is that why you hesitated at the Jag this morning?
“Yes. It’s also why I don’t own a car.” She shrugged. “Cars give me a bout of nausea. It usually passes in moments. A reaction from the explosion.”
“It wasn’t your fault, Gypsy.”
She rose to her feet, furious with herself for letting her guard down, if only briefly.
“And Olivia?”
“She and Grams had been friends since Radcliff, remember? When Bobby disappeared, Olivia and I became quite close through the whole ordeal. She never believed I was involved.”
By the time Celeste had snagged the broom from the pantry, swept up the splinters of the bowl and put it all away, Cain had set the last dish in the drainer to dry.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in the kitchen,” she said, once they were finished. Unsettled, she tried to match this man to the one who’d been her fiancé. “Who are you?”
“I’m just a man, Celeste.” He sat at the table and leaned back, watching her with hooded eyes. Lifting a shoulder negligently, he added. “Not much more to it.”
There it was again, the detachment he’d shown when they’d dated. Only now, it plucked at her tightly strung nerves. Before, she’d just respected his privacy.
God, she’d been so naive.
“But there is,” she argued, not quite putting her finger on the cause of her frustration.
His eyes captured hers, the gray in them smoky, the murky depths somehow reassuring. “Just ask me.”
“I don’t understand—”
“You can trust me.” His tone dipped, touching off a sensitive chord somewhere deep within her. “That’s what you want to know, isn’t it?”
Automatically, she started to shake her head, only to stop in midmotion when she caught sight of his expression. Lord, he was arrogant. “Trust isn’t just given.” Nevertheless, something compelled her to do just that. She sat down and gripped her knees under the table. What was it about heroes that made you believe in them?
Heaven knew, she didn’t want to.
“Gypsy,” Cain covered her hand, his thumb stroking the soft pad of her palm. “How did Olivia discover you were alive?”
Aware the subject was no longer focused on Cain almost made her laugh. That had been the standard in their conversations. She’d ask a personal question, he’d deflect. Sometimes, it reminded her of a sparring match. One Cain always won. “I asked Jon to hold a funeral for Grams and me.”
Celeste yanked her hand back, not wanting the sympathy the contact would bring. “God, it was awful. When my mother died, I was barely old enough to remember. I never thought…” She took a deep ragged breath, trying to dislodge the knot from her throat.
Born fatherless, Celeste had been dragged from city to city by a mother who’d been pampered all her life and followed any man who caught her mother’s eye. At age five, Celeste’s world had abruptly changed when her mother had died in a car wreck with another woman’s husband. Within hours after her mother’s death, Celeste had been placed in the care of her grandmother.
“I waited hours after everyone left, before I went to say my goodbyes.” Petite, white-haired with a will made of tempered steel, Grace Taylor had once been a New York debutante. A loving, yet possessive woman, whose harsh ways had forced a daughter away. Once she’d gotten custody of Celeste, she’d refused to let her granddaughter repeat the past. She’d hired the best tutors and nannies, keeping Celeste always within reach. Secluded. “In spite of everything, I loved Grams.
“Olivia saw me at the cemetery. I didn’t know she had a meeting with the cemetery director about our headstones. The man wanted to show her a statue near ours. You can guess the rest.” Celeste smiled. “She almost fainted at my feet but recovered herself just in time to avoid giving my identity away to the director.”
“The fact that Olivia’s your friend doesn’t absolve her from suspicion.”
“I know. But this goes higher than her. Higher than you realize. We can’t trust anyone.”
“Including the president.”
“Yes, especially him. Emotionally, Robert killing his son would be a leap. But logically…” Abruptly, she turned away, looking across the room, seeing nothing, Cain was sure. Her profile revealed the battle within. “God, why didn’t Jon just take my secret to the grave?”
“Did you choose your alias or did Jon?”
“What?” Her head snapped back.
“You heard me.”
“I don’t have an alias.”
In Cain’s work, he’d used a hundred different identities through the years. Forgotten more than he remembered.
“Celeste Pavenic is who I am. Other than finding Bobby’s murderer, my past doesn’t exist.”
“Everything from the past?” He saw her chin thrust forward, her eyes narrow. He would have been amused by her response, if he hadn’t tuned into the fear behind the defiance. Been annoyed by it.
“Everything.”
“I’m from your past.” His statement hit the air with the heavy thud—a gauntlet thrown to the ground. And damned if he didn’t want her to pick it up.
“Exactly.”
The buzz of Cain’s phone cut her off. “What is it?”
“Hey, boss.”
“I’m nobody’s boss,” Cain replied, his harsh tone born from frustration with Diana more than from his brother Ian’s flippancy.
“We both know Roman only accepted Mercer’s position temporarily to give you time.” Ian grunted. “But when you’re running things, you might think about acquiring me before I change my mind and reti
re, too. This contracting thing could get old, you know.”
It had only been a few weeks since Ian had resigned his naval commission, so Cain took the flippancy in stride. If his brother did anything outside of government work, it would be running their family business. The old man would love that, Cain thought, absently. It was a known fact that the youngest son of Quentin MacAlister had the gift for making great whiskey. “What do you have for me?”
“You were right about the car. Stolen last night from a couple on vacation. Rental.”
“Okay, so what else you got?”
“There’s been a rash of B and E’s in your area.”
“Burglaries? Go on.”
“The police breakdown is on its way. Check your PDA. Looks like someone’s been busy. There have been six break-ins in the last few weeks. Some businesses, mostly residential—all high-income targets. Nothing’s surfaced on the street yet.” There was a pause.
Cain heard Ian’s fingers fly over his keyboard.
“In every case, they’ve used advanced tech equipment to gain access. Stuff only available to the upper echelons of the government.” Ian’s concern filtered over the phone. “I’m sending a list of projected targets with the report.”
“Robberies?” Diana murmured the question.
Nodding, Cain grabbed the unit from his pocket. “Send the report, Ian.”
After a short pause, his brother responded, “Here it comes. Notice the two topping the list.”
As the data filled the screen, Cain zeroed in on the obvious.
“Olivia Cambridge,” he noted. “The family mansion is located fifteen minutes from Shadow Point.”
“She arrived at Shadow Point a few weeks back. Earlier than usual. Could be the auction but it’s not her usual pattern.” It was common knowledge the president’s mother spent the colder months in Palm Beach. “I don’t like it, Cain. My muse is talking.” There was a pause. He let the words hang in the air. “The connection is too coincidental. And in my experience, an answer this clean usually stinks to high heaven by the time it’s all over.”
“Hell, it already smells,” Cain added. “Mercer’s shooting is tied in. I want that connection found, Ian. And while you’re at it, get me more on Olivia Cambridge’s charities, her bank accounts and who hangs out in her social circle here. There’s a leak somewhere and Olivia Cambridge might lead us to it.”
“Got it.”
“And Ian…”
“What?”
“Be discreet. The president wouldn’t be the first to sacrifice family for political gain. And I’m not so sure about his mother. Both are at the top of our list along with Vice President Bowden and the rest of the legislature. And until they’re all cleared, we don’t want anyone getting suspicious.”
“Don’t worry, brother. Discretion is my middle name.” Ian’s tone hardened over the possibility that the president might have killed his own son.
“How about the warehouse? What have you got on that?”
“I sent you the inventory. Looks like Mrs. Cambridge and her pals are storing some pretty pricey items for the charity auction.”
“Get me the security schematics on the warehouse, the Cambridge estate and any other estates listed. Pull in favors if you have to.”
“You’ll have it by tonight. Roman’s already working on it. He also said to watch yourself or there’ll be hell to pay from Kate,” Ian warned. “The pregnancy has left her hormonally challenged and this time he says you’re on your own.”
“I’ll handle her if the need arises.”
“What about Diana? How are you handling her?”
For some reason the question grated. “It’s under control.” But Cain’s little voice was nudging him, laughing at his confidence.
“I see.” The pause between the two words left no doubt what his little brother was thinking. Cain didn’t bother correcting him. “She’s there.”
“Yes.” It was a statement not a question, but Cain chose to answer anyway. “Anything else?”
Ian took the silent order to move on. “Yes.” This time the pause was longer. “Lara’s getting impatient.”
“Only impatient?”
“If I didn’t know you better, I’d think you find this situation amusing.” Ian’s sigh held a comical edge. “She doesn’t like me keeping her in the dark like this, Cain. Hell, she just doesn’t like me. Compound that with the fact that I’m stopping her from finding her father’s killer—well, let’s just say certain parts of my anatomy are at serious risk.”
Cain almost smirked over the younger man’s concern. Or the lack thereof. “You’re tough, you can handle her,” he responded, deliberately withholding sympathy.
“Hell, some things are just beyond the call of king and country. Since you trained her, you know she won’t hesitate to maim me if she thinks I’m in her way. Which I am.” Satisfaction rolled over the phone.
“Keep her pacified, Ian, but don’t underestimate her. She was my best protégé,” Cain ordered. “Right now, I don’t have time to deal with a grief-stricken operative.”
“Can I use brute force?”
Cain had recognized long ago that Ian was attracted to Jonathon Mercer’s daughter. He wondered if his brother realized it yet. “Only if necessary. Lock her up if you have to. Just keep her out of my way. And call me with any updates.” With that, Cain snapped the phone shut, not feeling the least bit bad about hanging up.
“Lara wants a crack at Jon’s killer?”
“Yes, but I’ve enough to worry about, without having—”
A knock exploded through the room, making Diana jump. Quickly, she reached for her pistol then crossed to her apartment door. But before she could grab the knob, Cain was there, his hand flat against the wood.
“Ask who,” he mouthed soundlessly.
“I was going to,” she whispered harshly, her glare shifting to the trim black metal pistol he held—barrel up. “Who is it?”
“Jim Lassiter, Miss Pavenic.” A throat cleared. “Can I have a moment of your time?”
Cain slipped the weapon back into his waistband and stepped partially into the room’s shadows, his curiosity sparked by the unexpected visit. Understanding he might need the local law, Cain had run a background check on Sheriff Lassiter before arriving in Shadow Point.
He recalled that Lassiter, a widower in his late forties, had retired as a captain from the Detroit Police Department’s Homicide Division. Two months prior, he had the accepted the position as the town’s sheriff when no one local had anything even close to his qualifications.
After following suit with her weapon, Diana opened the door. “Hello, Sheriff.” Her smile, Cain noted, was somewhat rigid, but her voice remained steady. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m sorry to disturb you, Miss Pavenic. But an hour ago, a drag race occurred on the road outside of town. I have a witness, a truck driver, who says one of the vehicle was a black Jaguar. It nearly ran his rig off the road.” The sheriff pushed back the brim on his Stetson, uncovering a dark, receding hairline. “You were seen getting out of that same Jag here in town. Now, I have some pretty angry people wanting to get replacement on some damaged mailboxes.”
“I understand—”
“Hello, Sheriff.” Cain stepped beside her, opening the door wide to accommodate them both. “The car’s mine.” The hand Cain extended was grasped immediately. “I’m…Miss Pavenic’s fiancé, Cain MacAlister. Sorry about the damage. I got carried away when some fool challenged me for my space on the road. When it got out of hand, I stopped my car, but the other car had already disappeared,” Lassiter released Cain’s hand. “I was going to report the incident but you beat me to it.
“Of course, I’ll pay for the expenses.” Cain removed his wallet from his pocket and handed the sheriff a business card. “Call that number and talk with my partner, Roman D’Amato, and he’ll take care of everything.”
After a glance at the card, Lassiter tucked it into his coat pocket. “Most of the
folks will accept this. Others might not…” He shrugged. “Let’s just say I know firsthand that some people aren’t as amicable to strangers.” He hooked his thumb through a front belt loop.
“If they don’t accept it, have them contact me here. I’ll take care of it.” Casually, Cain slipped his arm over Diana’s shoulder. “I’m hoping not to be categorized as a stranger around here for much longer. Isn’t that right, sweetheart?”
“What?” Her gaze flickered, before she recovered, bestowing upon Cain a look of absolute adoration. “Oh, yes.” She shifted her gaze to Lassiter. Her hand patted Cain’s stomach, her fingers digging into its muscles as she snuggled deeper into his right side. Cain was sure the sheriff didn’t notice. “I’m sorry, honey,” she demurred with a laugh, before turning to Lassiter. “I’m still not used to the idea of being engaged.”
“Well now, most folks didn’t even know you were dating.” Lassiter commented, his voice holding a hint of speculation.
“We met through mutual friends.” She smiled. Still, Cain noticed the lines tighten at the sides of her mouth.
“I guess congratulations are in order.” The sheriff’s friendly manner didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Thank you. I’m a very lucky man, finding someone as special as…Celeste.” Cain let his arm drop until his hand rested on the soft curve of her hip. He pinched her backside lightly. Immediately her fingers flexed, then relaxed against his stomach.
“Have you folks set a date?”
“Not yet,” Cain answered first. “We’re still working out the logistics with my family.”
“MacAlister.” The blue eyes studied Cain in a new light, his eyes drawn once again to the card. “As in MacAlister Whiskey?”