Portrait of a Girl
Page 23
Her mother’s desk had been propped up with a piece of wood. That really ticked her off. If they wanted to search and make a mess, fine. But why break stuff?
She started to open the fridge, hoping to find a can of diet cola, when she saw a note held up with a lobster-shaped magnet. From Uncle Henry. He’d been to her house?
She sat at the table and read the letter, written in perfect script.
My dear girl. I am so very sorry you were brought into this mess and had to learn of your father’s profession, particularly in this way.
I did my best to clean up what that devil Jeffers had done. I’ve arranged to have your pretty little desk repaired by an expert restorer.
And now I have a confession to make. I found your father’s journals and took them away with the intention of burning all record of his misdeeds. But I am neither judge nor jury, and it is not for me to rewrite history. The journals are now with the authorities.
Contact me if you need any assistance.
With fondest wishes,
Henry
P.S. Agent Simons has been in touch several times. I’m quite impressed with his devotion to his job, and to you.
The journals were out of her hands. Good. She wouldn’t be tempted to read further. And had no need to. All the important memories were stored in her heart.
She looked around her home and grinned. It was good to be back. Back to this house and this city. She felt comfortable here, and she had a good job. Best of all, she had a boyfriend.
Needless to say, she could look forward to many sleepless nights. She should probably get counseling. Geez, she could develop PTSD. She might jump at shadows for the rest of her life.
She glanced again at the letter from her godfather. Yes, Tony was devoted to his job. Was there room for her in his life, too? Or would she be waiting, always waiting for when he came home? If he came home?
…
The following morning, after about two hours’ sleep with her head on the table, she arrived at the bakery, eager to work. Sally welcomed her back with open arms and a few tears.
“Oh my goodness, I’ve never been so worried in all my life. Are you sure you should be here?” Sally searched her face.
Heather returned the hug. “I need to keep busy. This is my favorite place to be. Also…I wanted to talk to you about some ideas I have for the bakery.”
“Good, because I need to talk to you, too.” Sally led her to a chair and pushed her down. “The doctor recommended I stay off my feet for a few weeks so this little guy will cooperate.” She rubbed her tummy and smiled. “Nothing serious, but I should take it easy. Wrestling with ten pounds of bread dough is definitely out of the question.”
“Oh Sally, now I’m going to be the one to worry.” Heather grabbed her hand and urged her to sit, too. “What can I do to help?”
“Well, how would you feel about becoming my partner?” She held up her hand for silence. “I know you don’t have the money to buy in, but maybe we could set up an installment system, like a car loan. That way you’d have a vested interest and I’d still have majority control for a while.”
“What does your husband think?” Could she do this? Could she really put down roots, become a businessperson, and stay? She’d be near her godfather, the closest thing she had to family.
Tony had mentioned staying in this city, too. Heck, he’d offered to buy her house.
“My hubby is all for it, especially since it’ll be a gradual thing. If something changes with you or me, no one will suffer too much. We’ll have a lawyer handle the agreement, of course.” She leaned forward, a huge grin splitting her face. “I don’t see why we can’t do this.”
Heather’s excitement built. She had an ace up her sleeve. If Tony was serious about buying her house, she’d have enough money for the partnership, and maybe a little left over for new equipment to make her fancy French pastries.
“Have your lawyer draw up the papers. I’m in.”
They squealed in unison, had a celebratory glass of milk, and started talking croissants.
When the bakery closed that afternoon, Heather still had too much energy to think about catching up on her sleep. As soon as she got home, she went to the stack of paintings in the corner of the dining room. Assuming they were all stolen, she found it hard to appreciate their beauty.
They sure as heck didn’t belong to her. Making two trips, she lugged the oils up the hill and left them just inside Tony’s front door. He could deal with returning the artwork to their rightful owners.
The bedroom door hung open, and she peeked in. The bed was still rumpled from their night together. So much had happened. She hardly felt like the same person.
I’m not the same person.
After all she’d gone through, she was stronger, and more determined than ever to stand on her own feet. And she was filled with energy and fire to make the bakery a success. Make her life a success.
Back at the gatehouse, even though Uncle Henry had cleaned up, Heather felt the intrusion, like a layer of filth. She spent the next couple hours cleaning and scrubbing, being sure to disinfect every doorknob and light switch.
All the while, in the back of her mind, was the most important question.
Was Tony okay?
She’d just let Delilah in when the phone rang. Huh, maybe chanting call me, call me, call me actually worked.
“Hi, Tony, I was beginning to wonder—“
“Heather, listen. I just got off the plane.”
“You’re in Portland?”
“Boston. Sorry I didn’t call sooner. We caught up with Laroux. There was a bit of a battle and he got away.”
“Oh no, are you okay?”
“Just a flesh wound.”
She laughed. “No, seriously, I—”
“Seriously, I got shot, but I’m okay.”
“Oh my God.” She fell onto the couch and grabbed a fistful of her hair. Ice flowed through her veins. “Oh my God.”
“Heather, we suspect—”
“Where?” Her hand gripping the phone shook so much she had to use both hands to hold it steady.
“Where what?”
“Where were you shot? How bad is it?” Her stomach rolled. Tears stung her eyes. No, she had to hold it together.
“In my side, just above the hipbone. No internal organs were hit. A flesh wound.” His voice softened. “Are you okay?”
She shook her head. She wasn’t okay. She ached to hold him close. “When will you be home?”
“I’m on my way now, should be an hour and a half. Listen, Laroux left France, he may be in the States. Stay home and lock your doors.”
“Won’t he be caught trying to enter the country?”
“He’s got a few different identities.”
A shiver of fear raced down her back. She scurried to the front door and turned the dead bolt, then did the same at the back door after peering out at the dark woods in the distance. “Are you sure you’re okay? Should you be driving?”
“Sweetheart, I’ll be a lot better once I hold you in my arms and am sure you’re safe.” She could hear the smile in his voice.
“Do you have stitches?”
“I’ll show you when I get there.”
“Hurry, okay?”
…
Two loads of laundry later, Heather heard a car drive past. She hurried to the window in time to see a light come on in the front room of the big house.
Thank heavens he was home, safe. They were both safe now. There would be no more excitement, dammit. Unless you counted the sexual kind.
And she was counting on the sexual kind. They could go on dates and have dinner together like a normal couple. Take Delilah for long walks, returning home to fall into bed. Get to really know each other.
A tingle of lust warmed her belly. Smiling, she went to the kitchen and whipped up a late supper. She’d been so busy pacing and worrying she’d completely lost track of time. It was almost midnight. No wonder her stomach growled.
She glanced again at her clock—the one with the cat swinging its tail, given to her by her dad. Then wandered to the window. Now the light was on in another room.
Wasn’t he as crazy to see her as she was to see him?
A few minutes passed with no word from the man. She had to hold herself back from marching up the hill and storming the big house.
No, she’d be patient. He probably had stuff to do, reports to make. All sorts of secret agent business to conduct.
She had just settled in front of the TV with her supper of a fried egg sandwich when a loud knock sounded at the front door. Oh good, he finally had time for her.
Stop it, that’s not fair.
The poor guy just got off a transatlantic flight after being shot, for heaven’s sake.
Marching to the door, she prepared her speech, something along the lines of who the heck he thought he was, leaving her waiting and wondering and worrying.
She yanked open the door. A huge hand shoved her backward. She bounced off the wall and fell to the floor, landing hard on her hand, hearing a little snap. “Goddammit to hell.” Tears flooded her eyes, blurring her view of the large bald man. That damn bald man who’d snatched her from the hotel, prepared to kill her and bury her body in an unmarked grave. The bastard Laroux.
Delilah tore from the living room, barking and yelping. She lunged for Laroux, but he stepped to one side, aiming a kick at the dog. Delilah jumped away and ran into the night.
Laroux loomed over her. “I won’t hesitate to shoot.” He kicked the door shut.
The gun in his hand, with the extra long barrel, pointed at her nose.
This was not good. Cripes, her heart wanted to beat its way out of her chest. This was not the kind of excitement she’d anticipated.
“The cops know you’re here.” She bit her lip. Tony suspected he might be here. A faint glimmer of hope, but it was all she had.
Shit, her wrist hurt. She tried wriggling her fingers, but quit as pain shot up to her elbow. Sitting awkwardly on the floor, she didn’t dare move. Partly because of the gun pointed at her head. Mostly because her arm hurt like a bitch and the least little movement was agony. Even breathing hurt. Every heartbeat sent another throb through her body.
“I won’t be here long. Give me the picture, I leave you in peace.” He took a step closer, his lip curled like an angry dog.
She figured he meant resting in peace. Permanently.
She squirmed on the floor, shifting her tingling left foot from under her. If the opportunity arose, she wanted to be able to run. Except her wrist throbbed, and she felt ever so slightly like throwing up.
Tony was going to be very angry with her when he discovered she’d opened the door without checking first. Although, the way things were going, she wouldn’t be alive to hear him yell.
Not much comfort there.
Where the heck was her knight in shining armor, anyway? He said he’d be over.
She had to stall, keep the goon talking, give Tony time to call in the SWAT team.
“When will you get it through your demented head that I don’t have your freaking picture?” She kicked at the floor and pushed herself backward to lean against the wall. She cradled her wrist against her chest. Looking down, she decided the swelling probably wasn’t a good sign.
Shit.
A nightmare. She was smack-dab in the middle of a freaking nightmare. Only, she was lucky enough to be wide-awake. A lunatic with a gun pointed at her head stood in her house, demanding the return of something she never had. She didn’t even know what the stupid picture looked like.
If she were watching this in a movie, she’d be hiding behind her hands during this scene, contemplating a popcorn run.
“If you do not have the picture, you must know where it is. You were in the house with Jeffers.”
Okay, so now was not the time to worry too much about the truth. “Yes, and that’s exactly where your stupid picture is. In the château. Being watched by the French officials. Looks like you should have stayed over there.” She wanted to stick out her tongue, but it was probably a bad idea to regress to childhood.
His face became an alarming shade of red. “No, you are lying. Your lover would not leave behind something so valuable.”
“Well, he didn’t give it to me.” Pain radiated down to her fingertips. Could you get gangrene from a broken bone? She needed to get to the hospital.
“Let us ask him.” Laroux grabbed her by the other arm and pulled her to her feet.
“Don’t—” A wave of light-headedness and nausea washed from her head to her stomach and she broke out in a sweat. “Listen, you jerk, my wrist is broken and—”
“Shut up.”
He wrenched her good arm behind her back, leaving her injured wrist to dangle. The pain almost drove her to her knees. Tears stung her eyes, and her empty stomach heaved.
Laroux pushed her toward the door just as it slammed open, hitting the wall.
Tony, his gun pointed straight at Laroux’s head, stood on the threshold, legs spread, every inch a warrior.
“Thank God you’re here,” she gasped, shaking her head to clear the stars from her vision. She was heartened to see that Tony’s gun was a bit bigger than Laroux’s.
But the size of the gun probably didn’t matter too much, not when both of them were pointed in her general direction.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Frozen in place, Heather didn’t dare move. And thought twice before breathing.
The last time she’d had two guns pointed at her, a good guy was injured and the bad guy escaped. She didn’t see how things would end any better this time.
This scenario was becoming familiar. It was almost funny, in a twisted way.
“Let her go, Laroux.” Tony held the gun with both hands and seemed to be pointing it at her right ear.
Please don’t shoot, please don’t shoot.
Getting shot in the ear would hurt way more than a broken wrist.
“Go to hell, Simons. Take this bitch with you. Just give me the Fragonard.”
“I don’t have it.”
“I am sorry to hear so.”
“Let her leave and I won’t shoot. You’ll be extradited and can enjoy good French cooking in your prison cell.” Tony smiled, sounding like he was giving travel advice.
“You don’t dare shoot me.” Laroux’s voice raised to a singsong. “You might kill your lady friend.”
“I have very good aim.”
Laroux laughed in that fake way that was so annoying. “No one is so confident. Not even an arrogant American bastard like you.”
She tensed. Was this some sick game of chicken?
“Do you feel lucky?”
Tony was quoting Dirty Harry now? How could he joke at a time like this?
Sweat trickled along her scalp, she was in danger of peeing her pants, and Tony was standing there all calm and collected, not even blinking. Like this was just another day at the office.
Laroux took a step to the right. Heather resisted, leaned to the left, pulling Laroux off balance. Tony squinted a little, his arm twitched, and his hands tensed, just a smidge.
And then a bomb exploded.
She screamed.
The hand keeping her arm pinned behind her back released its grip.
Someone else started screaming.
Tony rushed forward, pushed her toward the door, keeping his gun aimed on his target. “Drop your weapon,” he shouted.
Heather’s ears rang. She slumped against the doorframe and dragged in gulping breaths.
Holy crap, Batman.
She looked at Laroux. He lay on his back, a growing puddle of blood spread under his shoulder. He clutched his gun. Was he dead? Her stomach heave
d at the metallic smell of thick, dark, red, sticky—
Laroux’s fingers relaxed, releasing the gun onto the floor. He gave it a push. Tony snagged it with his toes.
“You’re not wearing shoes.” Her wrist was on fire and her other shoulder felt like it was pulled from its socket, but all she could do was focus on Tony’s bare feet. She wiped at her face, surprised to find it wet. “Why aren’t you wearing shoes?”
He pulled his phone from his pocket and pressed a button. He didn’t take his eyes off Laroux. “I didn’t have time.”
“But it’s the middle of winter. You shouldn’t go running around in bare feet.”
He flickered her a glance and flashed a grin. “Trust me, I had more important things to worry about.”
He said a few terse words into his phone, then stepped toward Laroux. “I don’t believe you’re in immediate danger of dying. I suggest you lie still. An ambulance is on the way.”
“He doesn’t look very good,” she said, taking a step closer before slumping against the wall. She probably didn’t look so hot either. She hoped they had really good drugs in the ambulance.
“No, I imagine he’s hurting. How’s your wrist?”
She pointed to the injured arm, not daring to move it, or even touch it. “I think it’s broken this time.”
“Damn, I’m sorry, sweetheart.” He took his eyes off his prisoner long enough to brush more tears from her cheek.
She bit her lower lip until it stopped trembling, not wanting to break down in front of the asshole on the floor. “How did you know Laroux was here?”
“I was just putting my scope away when Delilah showed up at my door, so I checked out your house.”
“Your scope? You mean a telescope?”
Tony appeared engrossed with the pattern of the rug.
“How many times have you watched me?” If her body didn’t hurt so much, she’d give him a slap.
“Just enough to make sure you behaved yourself. I had to rule you out as a suspect. After watching you bake cookies and practice yoga, I—” His focus moved to Samson, who’d just slunk past.
“What else did you see?” Her face heated. The last time she’d done yoga, she’d gotten carried away and had—