Ruthlessly, Claire shoved aside the gruesome vision of Jeannette Tyler’s death. If she let terror overwhelm her, the killer won. She summoned a meager smile. “I’m glad you took him on. He seems to be a lot more responsible than he looks.”
“That’s a Whitlaw for you,” Brad mocked. “Responsible, upright, law-abiding, God-fearing . . .”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Claire promptly turned her back, displaying an intense interest in news of the latest international crisis.
Later that night, after Brad turned out the bedroom light, he lay with his elbow under his head and ran through his options. He could simply take his wife in his arms and make love to her. It was, after all, only the third night of his honeymoon and last night had been a total wipeout. Claire might be justifiably annoyed with him over more issues than he cared to name, but he was confident it wouldn’t take much to overcome her pique. Then again, that was just sex. No matter how tender, or how passionate, it wouldn’t resolve problems more serious than lying to a video camera.
But if words were needed instead of action, what was his opening gambit?
Uh, Claire . . . are you recovered yet? How the hell could she be recovered from the terror of a unknown stalker even if it had been thirty days instead of thirty hours?
Are you feeling better? An improvement, but damned trite. She was his wife, for God’s sake, not an unknown victim at a crime scene.
Do you think you’re ready? . . . Insensitive. Why should she be ready to come to him? She’d had Diane rubbed in her face, up close and personal. She’d seen her husband dragged off for questioning. She’d been stalked, questioned from every angle. And her stalker was very likely a madman who had her targeted for his next victim.
Not to mention her husband actually expected, wanted, panted for her to make love to him. With him.
Brad stifled a groan, shifting his arm to cover his eyes. Wasn’t he a one? A real prize? He ought to get out of bed, get down on his knees and beg forgiveness for his carnal thoughts. Which weren’t doing a damn thing for his libido anyway. He was limp as a rag.
Okay, so he was suffering from a lethal mix of guilt and self-pity. It was all his fault. He should have been smarter. He should have caught the bastard. He’d promised to protect Claire. Hell, that’s why she married him.
He’d failed. Then again, a man couldn’t work miracles. He could only do his damnedst and hope for the best. She was his wife. This was their honeymoon. They weren’t supposed to be lying in bed like two bumps on a log.
Brad sank further into the bed, settling himself for the long lonely agony of the night. He’d slept under damn near every condition imaginable, but not tonight. Not in his own bed. With his own wife. His bride. He’d fucked up. Big time.
Soft fingers touched his naked hip. Resting quietly, unmoving. Brad stopped breathing.
Two of the fingers moved, walking lightly across his abdomen, where they paused to trace the rim of his belly button. Brad’s breath left him in a soft whoosh of air. He clenched his teeth against a groan. He was imagining things. Must be.
In a soft pitter-patter of fingertips and the gut-wrenching flick of fingernails, the unseen dainty, all-powerful hand moved lower yet. Brad, who had rediscovered God in a helicopter somewhere over Calusa County just the day before, sent up a fervent prayer of thanks. For whatever reason, his wife wanted him, forgave him. Possibly even loved him.
He reached for the hand that had achieved instant success in coaxing its target into life. “Not yet, not yet,” he murmured, moving her tantalizing fingers away from his pulsing readiness. “I thought I couldn’t love you any more, Mrs. Blue, but you—you witch from New England—have just surpassed all expectations.” Brad bent his head to blow warm breath into her belly button, followed up with a trail of butterfly kisses moving over the fullness of her breast. A gasp shuddered through her as his teeth tugged her nipple, moved on.
“You’re a giver, Claire Blue, with more compassion than common sense,” he breathed, poised with his lips barely above her own. “You can’t even be certain I’m not a murderer—God knows I’ve done more than my share of killing—and yet here you are.”
Brad paused for a kiss—light, teasing. A promise. “So I’m going to make sure the giver gets as good as she gives.”
“You always do,” Claire whispered against his mouth.
This time Brad’s groan was closer to a feral growl. This was how it was meant to be. Nothing, and no one, was going to take Claire from him.
In the dark of the moon they created their own light.
When Jody picked up Jamie on Tuesday afternoon, their trip was much shorter than the drive to the skating rink. Only a half mile from Ginny’s home was the small ferry that transported people across the bay to the beach on the barrier island. Jamie considered the ferry ride a special treat, much more fun than going to the beach by car. He tumbled eagerly out of Jody’s pickup, clutching his towel and a bucket for shells, with Jody right behind, juggling two colorful five-foot noodle floats.
“We went ice skating yesterday,” Jamie informed the ferry boat captain, who was an old friend. “Jody says today she has to bake her bruises in the sun.”
With a twinkle in his eye, the elderly ferry captain shoved his cap a half inch higher on his receding hairline. “I surely don’t see any bruises, but then I’m getting old and maybe my eyesight’s fading.” Solemnly, he winked at Jamie. “Or maybe I’ve gotten old enough to know better’n to look too close.” Man and boy exchanged grins, while Jody made a face.
The man in the BMW let out a string of expletives. In the ferry’s grassy parking lot, which featured far more pickups and boat trailers than sedans, his city slicker car stuck out like a sore thumb. He glowered, reversed and drove away in a manner far more reckless than his customary deliberate caution. His tires squealed as he left the marl and bounced onto the paved road, leaving a trail of white dust behind.
On Wednesday afternoon his wait was longer. And damned nerve-wracking. Blasted third day in a row he’d waited near Ginny Bentley’s driveway. Somebody was going to notice. But the hunt was up. He knew exactly what he had to do, and nothing was going to stop him.
His spirits perked up as Jody zipped by the ferry dock and, several miles later, the skating rink as well. The Beamer was behind the pickup when it entered the Tamiami Trail, but dropped two cars back as soon as there was traffic to hide in. By the time they bypassed the heart of Golden Beach and rumbled over the bay bridge north of town, he began to suspect where they were going.
At last. This was it. Fate had found a way. It wasn’t quite what he’d planned, but, hell, he was flexible . . .
It would do.
He glanced at his watch. Too early for Claire to be home. His sources of information were excellent. He knew she’d gone back to work right on schedule on Wednesday morning. Come hell or high water, Amber Run must have its sales force in place. So the great house would be empty. And an empty house meant no deputy on duty.
Oh, yes. The place and time were here and now.
Once again he parked the Beamer on the far side of the inlet, watching intently as Jody backed and turned until the rear end of the pickup was as close to Palm Court’s kitchen door as she could get. Jody gave Jamie a boost into the rear bed of the truck, where he began grabbing items and handing them down to Jody who stacked them on the ground. After considerable hauling and heaving, they staggered into the house, weighed down by an array of bulging trash bags, pillow cases and gym bags full of what the watcher realized must be all Jamie’s worldly possessions.
Should he make his move now? Wait for a second trip? There were plenty of bags left in the truck. He glanced at his watch. Plenty of time. The earliest Claire could get home was four-thirty.
Seven minutes. Jody and Jamie were inside for seven whole minutes. They must have let the kid have the third floor tower. The first floor bedrooms would have been faster than that. When they disappeared into the house the second time, he turned the key in
the ignition and eased the Beamer back onto the road. In less than a minute he was parked behind an oleander hedge, close to Palm Court, but not visible from the house.
“How come you’ve got all this stuff, Jamie?” Jody complained as they climbed the last set of steps to the third floor. “I don’t have half this much, and I’m twice your age.”
“I—uh—kinda had a lot of stuff from before,” he muttered, and doggedly resumed his climb, hauling a laundry bag stuffed with games, puzzles and a few treasured comics.
With a sigh of relief, Jody dumped onto the wooden floor the load of books that had increased in weight with every stair tread. “Whew!” she breathed. Standing hands on hips, she surveyed the room. On the first trip she’d been carrying so much that she failed to look around.
The room was a perfect square, paneled on three sides with banks of windows about three feet off the floor, each offering a view of the bay or the inlet where Brad kept his boat. “Oh, wow!” Jody breathed. In one corner of the room a narrow spiral staircase rose up toward the ceiling. “Is there a sun deck?” she asked.
“Yeah.”
“Can I see?”
“’Course. The bolt kinda sticks, tho’. Brad says that’s good cuz he doesn’t want me going out there alone until I’m ten. But I’m almost nine, so that’s only a year.” By the time he finished speaking, Jody was out on the roof, Jamie at her heels.
“It’s a good thing the stair railing keeps on going,” Jody said, “or I’d have had to shinny out the trap door on my tummy.”
“Yeah, it’s sorta too easy,” Jamie agreed. “It’d be more fun if we had to crawl out.”
The seabreeze was strong four stories up. Jody stood close to the stucco parapet, shaded her eyes against the westering sun, and soaked up the view. If she didn’t count Space Mountain at DisneyWorld, the sun deck at Palm Court was literally the highest she’d ever been off the ground. Wow!
The bay and the inlet were myriad shades of blue and green; the neighboring houses and Brad’s boat, strangely diminished. A mile or so to the west the Gulf of Mexico was clearly visible, glowing under the kiss of the afternoon sun.
A giant banyan obscured the view to the east, but to the west, directly below and four stories down, the Palm Court pool gleamed inside its frame of white cement, rocky waterfall, and scattered lawn furniture.
“Pretty great, huh?”
“You are one lucky kid,” Jody declared with feeling. “I’m sure glad we’re friends. Maybe you’ll invite me back sometime.” She grinned at his swift agreement, took a last deep breath of salt air. “Come on, Jamie. We don’t want your mom to come home and find the pickup still full of stuff. Jody headed toward the stairs. “Don’t forget to shoot the bolt,” she called, pausing on the bottom step until she heard the snick of the heavy slide bolt above her. “Do you think your mom’s got some soda?” she asked. “Those books of yours weighed a ton.”
“She doesn’t like soda much,” Jamie confided, “but she always keeps some in the fridge for me. I think Brad likes it too,” he added confidingly.
“Okay, Tiger, let’s find the fridge.” Jody ruffled Jamie’s hair. Their spirits renewed by thoughts of what might be in the refrigerator, they raced each other down the two flights of stairs to the kitchen.
“Well, hello there. Nice to see you again.”
Two sets of sneakers skidded to a halt on the white ceramic tile at the sight of the man standing at the far end of the kitchen, his body outlined by the brilliance of the afternoon sun shining through the bay windows. Jody sucked in a shocked breath, let it out in relief as she recognized the face.
“You were running Claire’s wedding,” she said, returning his friendly greeting. “Mr. Lovell, isn’t it?”
“How nice of you to remember me, my dear.” In contrast, he found Jamie’s scowling face almost amusing. Perceptive little devil. “You remember me too, don’t you, Jamie?” he asked smoothly. “I was the one directing traffic just before your mother walked down the aisle.”
“Yeah, I remember.” Jamie didn’t smile. Whatever was happening here in Brad’s kitchen, he recognized the feel of it. The wrongness of it. The bad. Something that got right inside of him and made him see things he never wanted to see again.
He ought to tell Jody to run, but he couldn’t say why. This was the man who organized his mom’s wedding. Jody would think he was a silly baby if he told her to run. But that’s what he ought to do, he knew it. He could almost hear Brad’s voice: Run like hell, kid. Get out of there.
“I brought your stuffed animals in,” the man said, nodding toward a large black trash bag on the kitchen table. “Look at this dinosaur,” he said, hauling out a bright blue velvet Tyrannosaurus Rex at least three feet long. “I don’t think he liked being shut up in that bag, Jamie. Maybe you should take him upstairs yourself.” Jordan Lovell’s handsome face flashed another smile. Expectantly, he held the dinosaur out to Jamie.
Jamie took a step backwards.
“Jamie!” Jody’s sharp tone reminded him of his manners. Jamie stood still, eyeing the dinosaur as if the man-eater might come alive at any moment.
“Afraid he might eat you?” the man taunted. Oh so nicely. In that coy, superior manner certain adults use on children. His father’s friends had talked to him like that, Jamie recalled. Even when he was real little, he’d hated it.
Jamie grabbed Jody’s hand and started for the door, but Jody had been too well brought up to be rude to Brad’s and Claire’s unexpected guest. “Were you looking for Claire, Mr. Lovell?” she inquired brightly, pulling Jamie to a sharp halt. “We don’t expect her for another hour or more. Jamie and I are just getting a head start on moving his things.”
“I wanted to ask Claire to work on the library fundraiser,” he said with easy charm. “I might as well help out while I wait.” He spoke to Jody, but his eyes never left Jamie. “Come get the dinosaur, Jamie. Then I won’t have so much to carry up the stairs. I’m getting along in years, you know.”
“Go on,” Jody hissed, giving the boy a tiny push.
Jamie inched forward, his sneakers dragging across the floor. Jordan Lovell held the bright blue creature at arms length until Jamie’s small hand shot out to take it by the longed curved tail. The older man grinned, eyes dancing, and raised the dinosaur over Jamie’s head. If it had been Brad, Jamie would have laughed and leaped for the dino. As it was, his chin firmed. Feet planted apart, fists clenched at his sides, he glared at the intruder in his mother’s kitchen.
The dinosaur flew up to the ceiling. The man caught it, began tossing it from one hand to the other, gradually moving forward until the dinosaur arced within inches of the boy’s nose.
Jamie grabbed for it. In a flurry of movement the dinosaur sailed across the room and Jamie was held tight against Jordan Lovell’s body, an eight-inch hunting blade resting against his throat.
Silence.
At six Jamie had squirmed and struggled, kicked and bit. His captor had knocked him cold with one swift blow. His head ached for days. So, at eight, almost nine, he was still as a statue, his father’s amber eyes glued to Jody’s shocked face.
“It’s you,” Jody whispered, “isn’t it?” Brad had said there was no danger, the killer wasn’t interested in children. But she wasn’t a child any more, was she? She was sixteen. And oh, God, dear God, she hadn’t even begun to live. But Jamie? Surely the man wouldn’t . . . he couldn’t? . . .
“Oh, yes, dear girl,” Jordan Lovell agreed. “And you’re going to be my crowning achievement, my final link with destiny. I’d planned on Claire, but she’s such a cold New England bitch. Too elusive. I may have time to slit her throat, but I doubt I’ll bother with anything else.” He gave Jody a long, leisurely appraisal, smiled in satisfaction. Jeans and T-shirt weren’t quite his style, but she was a tasty little morsel.
“Upstairs,” he commanded.
“No.” Jody couldn’t believe she’d said it, baldly, just like that. She must be as crazy as he was.
The knife moved a fraction of an inch. Jamie gasped. A trickle of red began a slow journey down his throat.
“Brad could be home any time now,” Jody lied, her voice wobbly but clear. “If you want to live, you’d better get going.”
“I don’t much care for children,” Jordan returned coldly, significantly. “Upstairs now, or I’ll kill him right here. Make my life a lot easier.” Tightening his grip on Jamie, Jordan removed the knife from the boy’s throat long enough to wave it in front of Jody, giving her a good look at the long lethal blade. “Upstairs or he dies. Right now. Brad’s bedroom,” he ordered as Jody turned slowly and headed for the back stairs.
He’d looked around the day of the reception, and the master suite definitely met with his approval. He liked quality, luxury. Beauty in all its forms. “Keep moving,” he snapped, as Jody dawdled on the back stairs. He could almost hear the wheels turning in her dear little head. She was young and fast . . . and felt responsible for the child. Oh, yes, as long as he had the boy, he didn’t have to worry. She was his.
When Jamie’s feet didn’t move from where they were planted on the kitchen floor, Jordan simply picked him up and carried him across the tile, into the short hallway and up the back stairs. The kid was a dead weight—you’d think he’d been coached on what to do when being held hostage. By the time he walked through the bedroom door, Jordan was breathing hard. The girl stood poised near the bathroom door. Undoubtedly, remembering where Claire had taken refuge at Amber Run. But she wouldn’t do it. The little Florida cracker was the noble type. She’d never abandon the boy.
He had her. Oh, yes, he had her right where he wanted her.
“Undress,” he ordered. His smile was back.
“No.” She’d done it again, Jody thought. She was crazier than he was. The man was standing in front of her, elegant, handsome, smiling at the thought of raping her, killing her . . . He was holding a knife to Jamie’s throat . . . and she was talking back to him.
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