Crap.
* * * * *
At eight-thirty that evening, a knock at her front door had Larissa peeking out to find Brendon on her doorstep.
As he placed two large chef salads on the kitchen table, she remarked, “The media vans suddenly departed around four-o’clock.”
“I believe you have me to thank for that. Five different reporters stopped by the salon today looking for you and I informed them all that you’d gone to Baton Rouge to stay with relatives while you recuperate. I imagine there’s probably a caravan of media vans headed south as we speak.”
“Thank you, Brandon. You have no idea how nerve-wracking it is to have them all camped out front.”
“It was my pleasure. So, what did the FBI say that had you so upset, earlier?”
After she had given him a brief explanation of Stockholm syndrome, he said hesitantly, “Well, it sounds to me like they might be right.”
She closed her eyes and took several deep breaths until the urge to stab him with her salad fork had passed. “I am not suffering from any freaking syndrome!”
Brendon looked as if he might argue but whatever he saw in her face apparently made him reconsider.
CHAPTER 29
Larissa jolted wide-awake to the sound of an unknown male voice in her bedroom. Heart jackhammering against her ribs, her hand closed around the 9mm beneath her pillow.
As yet another reporter expressed his fervent desire to speak to her, she realized the voice was coming from the bedside answering machine. The phone’s ringer remained on mute, but she’d forgotten to do the same for the answering machine before turning in for the night. The reporter left a number where she could reach him, and disconnected.
Remembering what Doctor Harris had said about post-traumatic stress disorder, she lay there in the tangled sheets, buried deep in the grip of a severe depression. It felt as though she’d collapsed into herself like a dying star, leaving a black hole of such density that no happiness would ever again enter.
Pushing herself to a sitting position, she swung her legs over the edge of the mattress. In looking back on those five days, she could now barely recall the fear. All she remembered was how alive she’d felt, every sensory impression heightened. Her emotions had been so intense, food had tasted better, colors had seemed brighter. She longed to feel that way again, but instinctively knew she wouldn’t. From now on, the world and everything in it would exist in colorless shades of gray. She’d never feel anything again.
Not bothering to dress, she wrapped a thin, cotton robe about herself as the answering machine clicked on yet again. This time a different reporter left a message. She briefly considered unplugging it but, not wanting to miss a call from Brendon, she let it be.
Trudging wearily to the kitchen, she desultorily heated water in the microwave, stirred instant coffee and cream into it, and then, as an afterthought, added a generous measure of whiskey to the cup. At the sound of a vehicle pulling up in the alley behind her house, she got up from the kitchen table and peeked through the café curtains above the sink to see Steve’s big black pickup.
Well, crap! A visit from that moron was all she needed. Giving the belt of her robe a vicious yank, she double-checked the lock on the back door before heading for the bedroom. Luckily, all the curtains remained closed, although the lack of sunlight wouldn’t do much to improve her depression.
A moment later, Steve was knocking at her back door. He knocked several times as she sat on the edge of the bed, sipping the coffee. A few minutes later, the knocking came from her front door. The whiskey’s warmth began to permeate her extremities, and she closed her eyes, savoring it.
As she contemplated crawling back into bed, a sudden series of sharp raps on the bedroom window made her jerk so hard that coffee sloshed onto her robe. The early morning sun threw Steve’s silhouette onto the curtain, and she resisted the temptation to yank it open and wish him a ‘good morning’ with her 9mm.
After ten minutes of knocking, his truck’s engine coughed, then roared to life. As the rumbling of the big motor receded down the alley, the answering machine clicked on again. Steve’s voice said, “Larissa, I know you’re there. Pick up.” After a short pause, he continued, “Well, maybe you’re not there. I just wanted to say I’m real sorry about what happened to you. Did you know I was a suspect? After you went missing, that faggot friend of yours—”
She snatched the receiver. “You asshole! How dare you call Brendon that?”
“He is a faggot!”
“And yet, he’s twice the man you are.”
“‘Cause of him, the police thought I had something to do with your disappearance. They hounded me for days.”
“That’s what happens when you stalk someone.”
“I was not stalking you. And if you hadn’t dumped me, you wouldn’t have been kidnapped.”
“Excuse me?”
“I would have been there to protect you.”
“You’re so full of shit.” She refrained from adding, Chase would have beaten your punk ass to a bloody pulp.
“Larissa, please give me a second chance.”
“You must be joking. Unless you want to end up like Sparrow, stay away from me, and don’t call again.” She slammed the receiver back into its cradle and sat there, shaking. The nerve of the freaking bastard.
When the answering machine clicked on yet again, she felt like screaming. This time, unfortunately, it was neither Steve nor a reporter.
Agent Jarvis’ deep voice rumbled, “Ms. Santos, I know you’re home, and I know you can hear me. In approximately thirty minutes, I’ll be at your door. If you don’t open it, I’ll be back an hour after that with a warrant, and then we’ll speak downtown. If you haven’t eaten breakfast yet, don’t.” Her hand hovered over the receiver as she debated answering. He solved her dilemma by hanging up.
Well, crap! This day was off to a wonderful start.
She lethargically brushed her teeth but, indifferent to the matter of her appearance, decided to forego showering or even brushing her hair. In response to a loud knocking on her front door, she put an eye to the peephole. Expecting Agent Jarvis, she found instead a reporter. As the woman knocked again, she trudged to the bedroom to slip into jeans and tee shirt.
Exactly half an hour after Jarvis’ call, there was a knock at her back door. She peeked out, then reluctantly opened the door and stood aside for the two FBI agents to enter.
“We would have come to the front,” Jarvis said by way of greeting, “but there’s a news satellite van parked out there.”
“You didn’t mention that Doctor Harris would be accompanying you.”
Harris carried a pasteboard tray straining beneath three extremely large take-out cups. “Is my presence here a problem for you?”
Biting back a sharp retort, she ignored him as Jarvis placed a large fast-food bag on the kitchen table, then pulled out a chair, making himself at home. Harris seated himself as well and, with an irritated sigh, she joined them.
Eyeing the bottle of Southern Comfort, Jarvis picked up her coffee cup, sniffed, and arched his brows. “Isn’t it a little early to be imbibing?”
Embarrassed, she snapped, “That’s none of your freaking business.” After a short guilt-filled pause, she added, “I’m sorry, Agent Jarvis. I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m so stressed out and reporters camping out on my front lawn aren’t helping matters any.”
“My intent was not to condemn your actions. I’m merely concerned for your well-being.” He began removing breakfast sandwiches from the bag. “Bacon or sausage?”
“Bacon.” Harris set a huge cardboard cup before her. Removing the plastic lid, she gave an appreciative sniff before taking a cautious sip. The coffee was French vanilla, very strong, and much better than her own instant, although, knowing she needed to keep a clear head, she had to battle the temptation to doctor it with the whiskey.
Jarvis and Harris kept the conversation light as they ate. Nevertheless, her breakfast sandw
ich required a lot of effort to chew and then sat heavy in her stomach. Jarvis regarded her quizzically. “Ms. Santos, you seem unusually agitated this morning. Has something happened?”
After a brief moment’s hesitation, she related her past problems with Steve, and this morning’s unwelcome visit and subsequent phone call. “And the bastard had the nerve to imply that my kidnapping was somehow my own fault.”
“Give me his address. I’ll see that he never troubles you again.”
It was a very tempting offer. Not only was Jarvis an FBI agent, physically, he was an extremely intimidating man. If he confronted Steve, Steve would no doubt never risk contacting her again. But if Jarvis intervened on her behalf, she’d feel beholden to him. “Thank you,” she said finally. “It’s kind of you to offer, but that won’t be necessary.”
“Let me know, if you change your mind.”
Although the knowledge that she had the option of siccing Jarvis on Steve made her feel marginally better, she still refused the offer of a second breakfast sandwich.
When Jarvis and Harris finished eating, they cleared the table before getting down to business. Jarvis apologized that the media had learned her identity so quickly, assuring her no one in the Bureau had leaked any information. There were no new developments in the case and, thankfully, they’d found no additional bodies on the estate.
She knew it looked suspicious to keep asking about Chase, but couldn’t help herself. “Has Mr. O’Malley been released from jail?”
“No.”
She released an exasperated sigh. “How much is his bail?”
“Since he hasn’t been officially charged with a crime, no bail’s been set.”
This news heartened her considerably. If they hadn’t charged him, they apparently knew they had no case. But one thing had her puzzled. “If you haven’t charged him with anything, why’s he still locked up?”
“To assure he doesn’t flee the country. We’re holding him as a material witness.”
Material witness sounded innocuous, but there had to be more to it. “What exactly does that mean?”
“It means we can hold him nearly indefinitely.”
“That’s not legal!”
“I assure you it is.”
Fury bubbled up within her to seethe like lava in a volcano. “How the hell do you sleep at night, Jarvis?”
He returned her savage glare squarely and unabashedly. “I assure you, I sleep the untroubled sleep of the just.”
Heavy silence descended to envelope them like a dark, malevolent cloud. Harris cleared his throat loudly. Larissa ignored him, keeping her eyes locked unwaveringly on Jarvis. Apparently ill at ease with the ocular warfare occurring just across the table from him, Harris cleared his throat again. “Ms. Santos, have you given any thought to yesterday’s conversation?”
Shifting her narrowed gaze to him, she sat back and folded her arms across her chest. “I have, actually. What you said about Stockholm syndrome was somewhat interesting, but has no bearing on this case.”
“You’re not protecting Mr. O’Malley?”
Her temper immediately erupted. “Mr. O’Malley did not kidnap me!” Forcing it back down, she fought to restore some semblance of emotional equilibrium. “I realize that, because of what those men said about him having a woman tied up in his van, you all believe he’s guilty. But no matter how many times you question me, my story’s not going to change. And in the meantime, the real kidnapper’s getting away.”
Harris shifted his gaze to Jarvis. Recognizing his cue, Jarvis asked, “Did you know O’Malley has a girlfriend?”
Larissa’s heartbeat accelerated slightly.
From all the coffee she’d drunk.
The question brought to mind the night of the storm, when Chase had held her hand as they lay in bed. In the flickering candlelight, she’d asked if he had a girlfriend, and he’d admitted he did. Realizing Harris and Jarvis were waiting for her answer, she asked, “How could I possibly know anything about Mr. O’Malley’s personal life?”
Jarvis pulled a glossy magazine page from an inner pocket of his suit jacket and unfolded it, smoothing it out on the glass tabletop. “O’Malley’s girlfriend is a model. According to my wife, she’s fairly famous, so maybe you’ve heard of her. She goes by just one name. Cheyenne.”
Chase was dating Cheyenne?
No. Freaking. Way.
She’d nearly finished the giant cup of coffee, and the caffeine was coursing through her like an electric current. Jarvis and Harris had hardly touched theirs, and she couldn’t help but wonder if they’d brought her the jumbo-sized cup in a deliberate attempt to throw her equanimity into disarray.
If so, they’d succeeded.
When she made no response, Jarvis said, “So, do you know who Cheyenne is?”
In a very small voice, she said, “Yes.”
Jarvis slid the magazine page across the glass expanse of the table and, not breathing, Larissa took it.
Oh my freaking god. Chase was dating Cheyenne.
She knew the page wasn’t a fake because, a few weeks before her kidnapping, she’d actually seen it in a magazine. At the time, having never met Chase, she’d paid little attention to him, focusing instead on the drop-dead-sexy dress Cheyenne wore. In the photo, Cheyenne — nearly as tall as Chase, impossibly thin, and displaying cleavage capable of causing a fifteen-car pile-up — was smiling directly into the camera lens, her arm about Chase’s waist. Chase was dressed in black slacks and sport coat, and his muscular arm encircled Cheyenne’s narrow shoulders as he gazed at her.
Shock and dismay zinged through her as she suddenly realized why he’d exhibited such unbelievable self-control, why she’d had to beg him to have sex with her. His girlfriend was a freaking supermodel, so what would he have wanted with her?
Oh, crap, she was going to throw up.
Glancing up, she found Jarvis watching her intently. You freaking bastard, she thought viciously. Sliding the glossy page back across the table, she let out the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. Forcing all emotion from her voice, she said, “They make a very attractive couple, although I’m not sure why you showed this to me.”
“I felt you should know O’Malley has a girlfriend.”
She struggled to arrange her features into a puzzled frown. “And his personal life would interest me because…?” When Jarvis made no response, she asked the question that, at that moment, was first and foremost in her own mind, hoping he’d have an answer. “Has it not occurred to you to wonder why a man who dates supermodels would kidnap me?”
Jarvis nodded. “It has, actually. At the height of her career, Cheyenne was making nearly half a million a year. Of course, we have no idea how much Sparrow paid him, but it’s my guess that when O’Malley found he couldn’t afford the kind of engagement ring Cheyenne would expect, he decided to take drastic measures.”
A wash of cold shocked through her. Chase was getting married? He had drugged, kidnapped, and driven her clear across the country so he could buy his girlfriend a freaking engagement ring? Feeling as though someone had punched her in the solar plexus, she braced her forearms on the table for balance as vertigo took hold. She couldn’t breathe. Her face felt flushed and her heart was racing.
And she’d stupidly imagined there’d been chemistry between them. What a freaking moron she was. The son-of-a-bitch was getting married. For one brief moment, she was tempted to confess everything. If Chase wanted to get married, let him do it in a freaking prison cell.
Then sanity reasserted itself, and she realized why Jarvis had shown her the photo. To provoke exactly this type of emotional response.
Chase was her kidnapper — not her boyfriend — so why was she getting so upset? It must be all the caffeine cranking through her. He’d freely admitted to having a girlfriend. What difference did it make if the woman was a supermodel? Moreover, despite the fact that they’d shared a bed, he’d never attempted to force himself on her. Or even to seduce her.
<
br /> She had seduced him.
She looked up to find Jarvis watching her. “Yes?” he prompted.
“Yes, what?”
“You looked as though you had something to say.”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
Suppressing the impulse to shout obscenities, she took a deep breath and said with manufactured calm, “Of course I’m sure.”
Over the next two hours, Jarvis once again tried to wear her down with his relentless questions, and Harris reiterated the dynamics of being a hostage, until she was ready to scream.
And all the while, the photograph constantly obtruded itself into her consciousness.
Finally, as the two men got to their feet, Jarvis asked, “What would you like for breakfast tomorrow?”
“You’re joking, right? Please tell me you’re not coming back.”
“Ms. Santos, you wound me.”
“It’s nothing personal, Agent Jarvis. But I’m tired of rehashing the same subjects ad nauseam.”
“I understand,” he said sympathetically. “So, what would you like? More breakfast sandwiches? Pastries?”
If she wasn’t home, he couldn’t very well come by. “I won’t be here. I’m going back to work.”
His eyebrows rose. “In that case, we’ll meet after you get home. What would you like for dinner?”
She rolled her eyes, exasperated. “Instead of breakfast, why don’t we do lunch?”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “So, you’re not going to work?”
“No.”
“How about fish?”
“Fish will be fine,” she answered wearily.
As soon as they were gone, she took a large swig of whiskey directly from the bottle, and spent the remainder of the day in a state of abstraction.
The Heart Has Reasons Page 30