by Sandra Brown
Grit squatted next to her. “I need you to keep doing what you’ve been doing.” His voice was steady, as if he were telling her about what he’d cooked for dinner. “Stay calm and keep an eye and ear out.”
“You know what this man’s going to do, don’t you?”
Grit didn’t answer, but Marissa knew that she was right. The man who shot Elijah Cameron wanted to kill Grit Taylor.
The cut on her hand ached and she felt blood again seeping into the scarf she’d tied around the wound. “The shooter’s in the house, isn’t he?”
“Tupelo honey,” Grit said with the barest of smiles.
“What?”
With his free hand, he brushed his bare knuckles across her cheek. “When things get rough, I think about tupelo honey. My family makes tupelo honey at home in Florida. Best stuff in the world. What do you think about? Teaching history?”
“Living a normal life,” she answered without hesitation.
“No such thing.”
“Black Falls has had a rough year, but I love it here. It’s so beautiful, and I love the people. I love the Camerons, the Harpers, the café, the lodge.” Grit was still and quiet, but Marissa could see the focus and intensity in his dark eyes. “I’d like to try tupelo honey one day. Do you want to go back to Florida?”
“To visit. I don’t fool myself into thinking I could live there again.”
“I’m sorry, Grit. You shouldn’t be here…”
“Do you want to buy a place up here in snow country?” His dark eyes leveled on her. “If you do, I’m game. I’d chop wood and tramp through snow for you. Any day of the week.”
“Grit…”
He winked at her. “It’s okay.” Then he called into the hall. “Hey, ace. I know you’re in here. Let’s talk.”
A beat’s silence. “I knew you’d come, Grit. You’re so predictable.”
The shooter’s voice was deep and controlled—and close, not five yards down the hall. Marissa realized Grit must have known he was there. She hadn’t noticed a shadow, heard a movement, the sound of any breathing but her own.
“That’s right, Grit,” the shooter said, “I know it’s you.”
Marissa gulped in a breath. It’s Brian. Grit was frowning at her, and she said, “It’s Brian Fenton. He’s—”
“He’s a private military contractor,” Grit said. “I know him.”
“I had dinner with him a few times before the election. A lot of contractors do good work.”
“Fenton did, too, back then. Now he’s wanted by the FBI and who knows who else.”
“Ah, Grit, Marissa,” Fenton said. “It’s good that you remember me.”
Marissa raised her voice above a whisper. “I thought you were out of the country.”
“I wish I were.”
“I can get you out,” Marissa said. “It’s easy. Pack up. Let’s go.”
Fenton gave a low laugh. “Even if you were telling the truth, Marissa, Grit won’t let me go with you. Will you, Grit? You’d insist on going, too, and you’d slow me down with that missing leg of yours.”
“Nah, the leg’s fine,” Grit said. “It’s the cold that gets me, although I think I’m getting used to it. Scary thought. You ever try tupelo honey, Fenton?”
“What? What are you talking about?”
“My friend Moose would have liked you before you dishonored yourself with your illegal side deals. You had your own private black market going. I found you out, Fenton. You were selling weapons, supplies, parts, whatever you could get your hands on. Think of the hardworking people doing a job—”
“I’m just as good as you are.”
“You were. Then you decided to cross the line, and now you’re a loser. If you don’t give up, you’ll be a dead loser.”
“Put your gun down, Grit. Give up, and I’ll let Marissa go.”
Marissa shook her head, adamant. “He won’t.”
Grit gave her a slight nod but spoke to Fenton. “It’s not my gun. I didn’t come to Black Falls armed. Why would I? You meant to kill Elijah but you screwed up. You gave away your position a split second before you fired. That gave him all the time he needed to give Marissa the head start she needed to get away from you, and to keep you from getting off a second shot. Now he’s going to land on your head any second.”
“He’s messed up. He’s not doing anything.”
“You don’t know Elijah. He isn’t seriously injured. You can still get out of this, Fenton.”
“What, put my weapons on the floor and come to you with my hands up?”
“That’d do it.”
“I know you’re trying to last long enough for reinforcements.”
“Or I could shoot you before they get here.”
Marissa reached for a rudimentary Molotov cocktail she’d made just before Grit had arrived, using a slender glass bottle, the gas and a flour-cloth dish towel. She whispered, “Every history teacher knows about Molotov cocktails.”
Grit grinned at her. “Look at you.”
She handed him the bottle. She was surprised at the steadiness of her hands. “One thing before…” Before what? She decided it didn’t matter. “I love you, Grit.”
“Marissa—”
“Let me finish. I started falling in love with you last November when you returned Charlie to school after he went AWOL the first time. He trusts you, and you trust him.”
“I don’t trust Charlie. He’s a kid.”
“You trust his instincts, his mind. You and Elijah gave him attention when we were all too distracted and busy to notice he needed to feel as if he mattered.”
“So you fell for me because I wasn’t a jerk to your brother?”
She smiled in spite of her fear, or maybe in part because of it. “I also thought you were attractive in an understated manly way.”
He grinned suddenly. “That can’t be bad, right?” He kissed her lightly on the mouth. “That’s just for starters. I love you, too, babe. With all my heart and soul. I’m going to tell you how much I love you every day for a very long time, but right now is it okay if we deal with this crazy son of a bitch?”
Marissa knew they had no choice. She could hear Brian down the hall.
The lights went off.
He was coming.
Grit leaped up, moving with speed and precision. The suddenness and force of his assault seemed to suck the air out of the immediate vicinity.
Marissa didn’t breathe. Everything happened fast. There was nothing slow-motion about it. She saw the flash and heard the explosion, smelled the smoke of a Molotov cocktail. Brian yelled, and then came two shots…and silence.
“It’s okay, Marissa.” Grit’s voice, gentle, calm. “It’s over.”
Brian Fenton wouldn’t kill Grit, or her brother, or Elijah—or her.
She lifted her head and focused on the man she loved, standing in the moonlight.
* * *
Three hours later, the Camerons had a fire roaring in the big stone fireplace at Black Falls Lodge and pancakes and sausages fresh off the griddle for Grit, Marissa and a handful of Secret Service agents, who were marginally less tense and irritable than they had been after their very long night. Charlie Neal showing up at the lodge with a wounded Elijah Cameron…leading them to Marissa Neal at a remote ski house with Grit and a dead Brian Fenton.
“Fenton left a note,” Elijah said. “He blamed the SEALs for ruining his career after they caught him running his own black market, and he blamed you specifically for stealing Marissa from him.”
Grit dribbled hot maple syrup—what he’d been told was first-run syrup—onto his pancakes. “Kill two birds with one stone, except Marissa dumped him long before I came into the picture.”
Elijah pointed at Grit’s forkful of pancakes. “What do you think? Is real maple syrup better than tupelo honey?”
This from a man in a sling from a gunshot wound. Grit figured that was why he and Elijah got along. “Different. They’re both good. Are you and Jo going to have to postpo
ne the wedding because of your shoulder?”
“Not even for a minute.”
Charlie Neal squeezed past a Secret Service agent and sat by the fire. “I think it should be a double wedding. You’re going to ask Marissa to marry you, right, Grit—I mean, Petty Officer Taylor?”
Grit ate his forkful of pancakes. The syrup was damn good. He sighed as he put down his plate. “You know, Charlie, just because you think something doesn’t mean you have to say it.”
“I’d like you as a brother-in-law. Two of my sisters are dating real dicks.”
“You haven’t told them that, have you?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
Elijah laughed. “You’re a piece of work, my friend.” He nodded to Grit. “Go. I’ll keep Charlie out of your hair for ten minutes.”
Grit walked into the dining room and over to the windows, where Marissa was gazing out at the view of a snowy meadow and, in the distance, snow-covered mountains. He found himself experiencing phantom pain for the first time in months, as if to remind him that Marissa Neal could say no.
She turned to him and smiled. “I love the smells of the fire, maple syrup—and apples. I think someone’s baking pies.”
“Marissa…”
“I know you have to go back to Washington. Your work at the Pentagon awaits.”
“It can wait a few more days. I knew you were on school vacation this week.” He stood next to her, tried not to show her the pain he was in from a leg he’d lost so long ago—it felt like a lifetime. “What were you thinking about?”
“All the reasons we should be together. There’s only one that matters. I love you, and I want to spend the rest of my life with you. What were you thinking?”
“All the reasons you should say no.”
“You have more reasons not to ask than I have to say no.”
Her comment took him by surprise, but that was one of the things he loved about her. She was unpredictable, totally herself. “Name one.”
“My family. I’m a history teacher. I don’t know how to use a gun. I don’t want to know.”
“You make a mean Molotov cocktail.”
She waved a hand in dismissal. “As if you wouldn’t have done that yourself.”
He caught her hand midair and held it between his. “Marissa Neal, I love you and I want to be with you forever. I don’t have a lot to offer.”
“That’s right, you don’t. I’ve seen your apartment. Rats, Grit. Rats.” Her eyes sparkled with humor, but she couldn’t maintain it and flung her arms around him. “Yes, yes—yes, I’ll marry you, Ryan Taylor. Anytime, anywhere.”
“I think we have an audience.”
“Good.”
He swept her into his arms. The phantom pain was gone, and he saw Moose out in the meadow, laughing as he turned, his back to the lodge, and walked through the undisturbed snow.
One day Grit would tell Marissa about his friend Michael “Moose” Ferrerra and the good life he’d lived.
One day he’d tell their children.
He smiled and saluted as Moose disappeared over the mountains and into the blue Vermont sky.
* * * * *
POISONED
Beverly Barton
What a great hook! How could you read the first sentence and not continue. ~SB
I’ve been poisoned!
There could be no other explanation for what had happened to her. The recurring nausea, the horrific abdominal cramping, the blurred vision, the dizziness and mental confusion were a result of poison. It had been a deliberate, premeditated murder attempt. She had lived in fear for such a long time, watching her back, playing it safe, afraid to trust.
Apparently her drink had been doctored. Why hadn’t she been more careful? Had she been a fool to trust Jed Merrill?
“Olivia? Olivia…”
His voice came from far away, as if echoing through a long tunnel. Where was he? How close? Could she escape before he found her?
I have to keep moving. Must get away. I can’t let him catch me.
Darkness surrounded her. She couldn’t see where she was, let alone where she was going. But she couldn’t stop long enough to get her bearings. If she slowed down, he would catch her. He was close. She could hear his approaching footsteps. She could almost feel his hot breath on her neck.
Suddenly flashes of light zipped past her. Car headlights maybe? They had been moving fast, revealing nothing, not giving her a clue about her location.
For the life of her, she couldn’t remember leaving her apartment, had no idea how she’d gotten here, wherever the hell here was.
Winded and exhausted, Olivia paused long enough to suck in some deep breaths. Easing backward, hoping to hide in the murky shadows, she encountered a solid wall behind her, firm and yet giving, as if the surface was padded. She couldn’t stay here for long, just another minute at most. If she lingered, he would catch up with her. What would he do to her? Shoot her? Strangle her? Break her neck with those big, powerful hands that had only recently caressed every inch of her body?
Damn you, Jed Merrill. Damn your black-hearted soul. I trusted you. I believed you really cared.
Why was he following her? He had already poisoned her, hadn’t he? She was probably dying. If she couldn’t find a way to get to a hospital soon, someone would find her dead body lying in the ditch. Maybe that was why he was coming after her, in order to dispose of her body once she was dead. He could toss her in the river or in the landfill or bury her somewhere out in the woods.
“Olivia, can you hear me?”
Oh, God…oh, God. Jed was talking to her, his voice distinct, close, as if he was standing right beside her. With trembling fingers, she felt all around her, floating her hands in front of her and then on either side. Nothing. No Jed. No one. Just black emptiness.
And then he closed his hand around hers. For a split second, she didn’t move, didn’t breathe, and couldn’t make her body obey her mind’s commands.
“No,” she cried as she jerked her hand free of his gentle hold.
“Olivia, honey, don’t fight me,” he told her, his baritone voice Bourbon smooth and dripping with Southern charm.
Without hesitation, she turned and ran. Her legs felt as if she had heavy weights around her ankles. Tired. Listless. Her lungs aching. Her heartbeat wild. Tears trickled down her cheeks, dripped off her nose, and moistened her parched lips. She had to stop again, just for a few minutes, to catch her breath, to regroup, to figure out where she was and how to get to the nearest hospital.
Lights appeared again, closer, dimmer, nonthreatening. She moved toward them. Streetlights? She had to be careful, had to weigh the odds, had to decide if going out into the open was worth the risk. But what if she could find someone to help her, someone driving by or walking by, someone who could call 911? If only she could remember how long ago it had been since she had drunk the champagne and ingested the poison now killing her by slow, painful degrees.
Think, damn it, think. Try to remember.
She and Jed had been celebrating. He had brought the champagne with him. She had prepared dinner. No…she hadn’t had time to cook. She had picked up takeout on her way home from work. Had they eaten first, before Jed opened the bubbly? Yes, she thought they had. Vague memories of the two of them sitting on the floor in front of the fireplace, the food spread out on a tray, drifted through her mind. The jumble of memories and odd thoughts drifted through a hazy fog as if her mind wouldn’t allow her to see clearly.
What were we celebrating?
Olivia stumbled, barely managing to maintain her balance, and then continued running.
She remembered Jed making a toast, could see him smiling, could feel his lips against hers. His taste lingered, stronger than the taste of the champagne. Had she been given a promotion at work? Had he? No, she didn’t think so. Had one of them been given a pay raise? Won an award?
She shook her head.
Dalton!
Oh, my God, that was it. Dalton was in j
ail. The fact that he was behind bars was reason enough to celebrate.
How long would it take for his case to come to trial? Weeks? Months? Years? Until she testified and he was convicted, she would be in danger. He couldn’t allow her to live, to testify against him.
Olivia stumbled again, the earth beneath her feet slick and damp. When she looked down, she couldn’t see her feet, only the wet pavement glistening with iridescent moisture created by rain and oily road sludge. She didn’t recognize the street, couldn’t identify a single building, but she could hear the hum of motors and the drone of faraway voices.
“Help me…please, somebody, help me.”
“Olivia.” Jed’s voice surrounded her, coming from every direction, but she couldn’t see him.
Why was Jed trying to kill her?
Wasn’t it obvious? He was on Dalton’s payroll. A dirty cop. No, please, God, no. Not Jed. Not the man she loved, the man she trusted. But what other explanation could there be? Jed had poisoned her. And now he was following her, waiting for her to die so he could get rid of her body.
Barely able to stand, her throat dry, her limbs heavy with exhaustion, she struggled to make her way across the street toward the well-lit building. One you-can-do-this trudging step at a time, she pushed herself to keep moving. The cold nighttime rain pelted her face and soaked through her clothes. As she reached the double glass doors of the building and reached out to grab the door handle, a bone-rattling chill shook her from head to toe.
The pain in her belly hit with brutal force. She doubled over in agony as sour bile rose up her esophagus and coated her mouth with a bitter metallic taste. Her stomach tightened. She retched several times before the poisonous gold liquid spewed out of her mouth and coated the concrete sidewalk. As the pain subsided, she managed to stand up, her pulse drumming wildly in her ears. She was sick. She was cold. She was wet.
With an unsteady hand, she reached for the door handle and pulled on it.
Locked.
No, please. It can’t be locked. I have to get inside. I need help. And I need it now.
She jerked on the door handle again and again before giving up and pounding on the door with weak, trembling fists.