She needed that man now. Needed him desperately.
She was used to fighting long odds. The statistics she'd studied in graduate school predicted that she would end up like her mother—uneducated, pregnant, on welfare. Instead she'd put herself through six years of college, graduating with honors and a satisfying number of job offers.
She'd also been a virgin when she'd married Grady.
Now she was fighting long odds again. Odds that said the distance between the two of them had grown too deep to be bridged. That the love they'd shared before his job had come between them was dead.
Her hands shook as she worked the knot of her robe. When the sash hung loose, she slipped the heavy flannel from her shoulders and let it fall to the floor. Her gown was cotton jersey, soft enough to reveal the contours of her breasts.
His eyes turned hot, and his chest heaved as he drew in a ragged breath.
"I need you tonight, Grady."
Holding his gaze, she reached for the button at her throat, but he lifted his hand to push hers away. His fingers were too big and too rough to be deft. As he eased the gown from her shoulders, the calluses snagged on the thin material.
She shivered, not from the cold but from desire. It was wildly exciting to know that this tough man with the hard edges and brutally scarred, powerful body wanted her.
He lowered his head, and his kiss was hard, just shy of angry. Yet his tongue was sweet as he drew it slowly along the curve of her mouth, sending slow waves of the sweetest sensation spiraling through her. Her legs went watery, she clung to him, her fingers pushing against the lean, hard muscle of his neck. Her pulse was roaring in her ears, and fire flickered low and deep inside her.
She felt the give in him, the sudden release of control. He growled deep in his throat, a feral urgent sound that ran along her nerve endings like a current.
Need slammed into Grady like a series of vicious punches. The control that was his only defense shuddered, then broke. He buried his hands in her hair, holding her still for his mouth. He used his tongue, his lips.
A dark, angry emotion raced through him as he opened his mouth over the tender curve of her neck. He didn't know if it was love or hate or something in between. He only knew she was making him feel again, and it hurt. Yet, he couldn't stop kissing her, couldn't stop wanting her.
She groaned, her hands frantic, jerking his shirt free of his jeans. Her finger raced over his belly, sending ripples of sensation through him.
His body swelled. The pressure inside him was close to unbearable. His skin burned for her. His blood throbbed. He was too close to shattering now for patience.
He let her go long enough to swing her into his arms. He carried her with powerful, impatient strides to the thick rug in front of the living room hearth, now cold. Later he would build her the fire she wanted. Later he would soothe and pet. Now there was only the need to bury his pain in that soft willing body.
He jerked her gown to her waist, then glanced up. Her face was pale, her eyes glazed, her lips swollen and parted. His hand fumbled with the buttons of his fly. Too aroused to strip, he hooked his thumbs in the waistband and jerked the material to his thighs.
His need was a living thing. He'd been so lonely, so lost. Only Ria could heal him. His body surged free, and he moved over her. He closed his eyes and thrust into her.
She cried out, her body arching. And then he was pounding into her. She trembled, cried out. Through the haze of desire he realized she was sobbing.
He froze, struggling to contain the need clawing him. Her eyes were squeezed shut, her face lined and pale. Slowly he withdrew with shuddering slowness, trying not to hurt her any more than he already had. A hot knot formed in his gut as he shifted to her side. His hand shook as he drew the gown over her legs, his heart contracting when he noticed the discoloration of bruised skin.
Sick inside, the self-loathing sharp and twisting, he fastened his jeans, then leaned down to brush her hair from her wet cheek. He used his fingers to wipe away her tears, then bent to brush his mouth over her temple.
"Forgive me," he begged, his voice raw.
Her smile was terribly sad. "It's over, isn't it? What we had."
He couldn't quite meet her gaze. "We've hit a rough patch, Ree. What's happened is hard on both of us."
"No, it's more than that." She sat up and pulled up her legs. Her face was unnaturally pale. "Somehow we've just lost each other. When we had Jimmy, it didn't matter as much, but now…" She paused to draw breath. "We're just two people who share a house and some very precious memories."
She was ending their marriage, and all he could feel was relief that he no longer had to face her every morning.
* * *
Chapter 2
« ^ »
Two and a half years later
Grady spotted the federal narc the instant he stepped off the tarmac into the gloomy interior of the Imperial Valley International Airport's only terminal. A good-looking Latino of average height, with a wiry body and enough attitude to make even the toughest barrio hustler scurry for cover, he'd been leaning against a pillar just beyond the glassed-in waiting area, eyes hidden behind dark shades.
As Grady approached, the man straightened and moved into his path. It was a smooth move, a subtle power play. Though Grady was a head taller and a good fifty pounds heavier, this was the narc's turf, the narc's rules.
Play it his way or not at all came through loud and clear.
Grady decided he liked the little guy's style.
"You looking for me?" he asked, meeting the eyes that were scrutinizing him through the smoked lenses.
"I am if your name is Hardin."
"That's one of them. I prefer Grady."
"Fair enough." The man's grin flashed as he offered his hand. "I'm Cruz. Cruz Mendoza. Welcome to Calexico."
"I appreciate the lift," Grady told him as they shook hands.
"Glad to do it. Guys like me usually see the dirty side of this business. It's nice to be part of a happy ending."
"It's not happy yet," Grady reminded him as they walked past a line of check-in counters, most of which were still empty. The bone-jarring, stomach jolting commuter flight from LAX was the first of the day.
"Don't get me wrong, Captain, but you look like a man in desperate need of coffee."
Grady summoned enough of a smile to keep the man's goodwill. After twelve hours en route, two delays and three flights, he was feeling a little punch-drunk. "Thanks, but I'm already wired."
The truth was he would kill for a sip. Hell, even a whiff of caffeine would give him a high these days. But for the past couple of months his gut had taken a strong dislike to the stuff.
"Is that it for luggage?" Mendoza asked, indicating the worn, olive drab duffel bag passed down from his dad who'd been a sailor during the Korean War.
"That's it."
Grady arched his aching back to work out the kinks, then slung his duffel over his shoulder and walked with the agent out of the terminal into a blaze of summer sunshine. It had been drizzling in Indiana when he'd left. A sodden, gray, miserable day in a long string of miserable days.
He fished a pair of shades from his shirt pocket and slipped them on. A hot southwestern wind flavored with grit slapped him across the face as he followed the wiry agent to a dirty brown Jeep with pitted fenders and a broken taillight parked in a red zone.
"Border Patrol found it stuck in the mud a few miles west," Mendoza said with a wry grin. "No VIN, no plates. Blends in real good south of the border."
Grady tossed the duffel into the back and slid into the bucket seat. The Jeep smelled like damp sweat socks and stale hamburger grease. A desert emergency kit was tucked into one corner of the cramped space behind the seat. A dark blue windbreaker was shoved into another. Between the two was a jumble of boots, dirt-encrusted sneakers and a faded DEA ball cap.
Oblivious to the litter, Mendoza slipped easily behind the wheel and slammed the door. "The couple picked up with the boy are
at the county jail. I figured you'd want to talk to the prosecutor who caught the case, so I made a tentative appointment to meet her at noon at the courthouse."
"Thanks."
"Bastards lawyered-up first thing. Some high-powered suit from LA."
"What about bail?"
"Two mil. They'll be a while making it."
"I'll want to see them."
"Figured you would," Mendoza said with a satisfied grin. "You want to head for the motel first?"
Grady glanced at his watch which he'd set to Pacific time someplace over the Rockies. It was a few minutes past seven. "If it's all the same with you, I'll like to see the boy."
"Figured you'd say that, too." Mendoza turned the key, fired the engine. "He's with a foster couple at the far edge of town. Good people."
The narc checked the mirror, then sped off, leaving a cloud of fumes behind. So much for California's clean-air act, Grady thought as he shifted position, trying to stretch the kinks out of his legs.
Too many hours jammed into a series of economy-class seats with his chin damn near resting on his knees had numbed his backside, while the endless hours of not knowing had slowly, inexorably twisted his gut into a searing knot. Taking shallow breaths against the pain, he dug into the pocket of his windbreaker for the antacids that were his constant companion these days.
He was supposed to be in Indianapolis for a statewide meeting of police captains and inspectors this morning. No doubt he'd hear about that from the brass when he got back home. At the moment he didn't give a rat's ass. His obsession to prove himself worthy of the Hardin legacy had been the worst mistake of his admittedly misbegotten life. Right now, this instant, he'd willingly trade his captain's bars for his son's safe return. Hell, he'd even turn in his badge if that would bring Jimmy home again.
The first time he'd snagged a "maybe" from a kiddy cop in St. Louis, he'd felt honor bound to call Ria to let her know. And, yeah, maybe he'd wanted her to know he wasn't sitting on his duff, licking his wounds and feeling sorry for himself.
It hadn't surprised him when she'd insisted on going with him. Though she looked as delicate as the lacy veil she'd worn over her shimmery brown hair at their wedding, she had the soul of a warrior in that tidy little body. When life took a punch at her, she doubled up those small hands and fought back.
Sometimes, though, no matter how many punches you landed, you couldn't win. When the child had turned out to belong to someone else, the disappointment had ripped open a lot of wounds for both of them. Since then, he'd checked out the leads alone.
Twelve times in the past three years he'd climbed on a plane in response to a "maybe" from a fellow cop who'd seen the flyers he'd mailed out by the hundreds every month. Twelve times he'd walked into a strange room with his heart in his throat and his gut in a knot. Twelve times he'd walked away disappointed, fighting to keep from pounding his fists into hamburger.
The divorce had been final for more than two years. The farmhouse belonged to someone else now. He and Trouble shared a place near the Purdue campus. Ria had rented a town house overlooking the Wabash. As far as he knew, she lived alone. His parents never talked about her love life. He sure as hell never asked.
She was a career woman now, the administrative director of the Wabash Women's Center, which she'd founded a little more than a year back with two friends from grad school.
He'd read about the opening in the paper. The mayor herself had cut the ribbon. Everyone in his family had been there but him.
He hadn't been invited.
When the two of them met at family functions, they were polite to each other. When they spoke about something related to the search, they did it by phone. She'd stopped asking him if there were any clues, any leads.
Each time he'd had to disappoint her, the hope in her eyes had dimmed a little more. He was terrified that someday that hope would be gone forever.
"The foster parents are expecting us, right?" he challenged, his voice a shade too rough. Mendoza shot him a measuring look before nodding.
"Social worker'll be there, too. Guy by the name of Tsung. I got hold of him on his cell phone right before your plane landed, gave him an ETA. He's bringing the report from the kiddy shrink."
"Has … the boy said anything?"
"Not much beyond crying for his mama. I mean, the piece of human slime he thinks is his mama." Mendoza's voice was surprisingly gentle. Grady liked him for that.
"You ever been to this part of the country before?" Mendoza continued after a couple of minutes of tense silence during which Grady sucked on chalk and took stock of his surroundings.
"Nope."
Mendoza braked to keep from ramming the back of a slow-moving truck, whose bed was piled with watermelons. Pickers were already in the fields lining the road, their backs bent as they moved down the rows. In the distance a biplane swooped low, leaving a trail of white behind.
"I grew up here. Picked my share of tomatoes before I got smart and hit the books."
Grady heard the rueful note and sympathized. "Reminds me of northern Indiana." Lots of fields, lots of dust and plenty of backbreaking labor for not much pay. "My brothers and I used to pick up extra money summers threshing hay." He could still feel that maddening, itchy feeling between his shoulder blades where the chaff invariably settled, no matter how tightly he tied the bandanna around his neck.
"Sorry about the lag time on notification." Mendoza flicked him a quick look. "Budget cuts hit us hard this year, and we're short three agents in this district. Me and my partner have been in Mexicali for the past week, which is why I didn't get to the arrest report until yesterday."
Grady didn't want to think about other times, other places when overworked public servants just might have overlooked a vital clue. "System works slow sometimes. Sometimes it doesn't work at all. This time maybe we got lucky."
In response to a tip, Border Patrol had checked out a couple from San Diego by the name of Wilson. The guy who'd dropped the quarter swore the "Wilsons" were seasoned moles, real pros at smuggling junk into Calexico from the Mexican sister city of Mexicali.
The drug-sniffing shepherd had found the neatly wrapped bricks of heroin in the hollowed-out seats of the late-model van and called DEA. In the back seat had been a six-year-old, blond, brown-eyed male who'd given his name as Steven Wilson.
The couple claimed to live in San Diego, but the local authorities hadn't been able to scare up any school records or next of kin. The alert caseworker from child welfare had flagged the case for further investigation.
The arrest report had sat on Mendoza's desk for ninety-six bleeping hours. Hours that must have seemed like a lifetime to a scared little boy stuck in a foster home with strangers.
"As soon as I saw the boy, I knew there was a strong possibility he was the kid in the picture you sent." Mendoza slowed to let a rust-bucket pickup chug past before turning into a narrow street lined with stucco and timber duplexes. "Your son was three when he was kidnapped, right?"
"Right."
"Damn amazing what computers can do these days." Mendoza shook his head. "Showing what a three-year-old would look like at six. Impresses the heck out of me, that's for sure."
"Actually, that particular picture was real. My dad took it of me when I was six."
"Yeah? Guess that means your boy looks like you?"
"Darn near identical. My wife … ex-wife … had our baby pictures framed side by side. Not even my folks could tell which was which."
But Ria could tell. She claimed it was a mom thing. Part of the bonding process. Ria had been big on bonding. Hell, she'd even bonded with her rose bushes. Her prized babies belonged to someone else now.
"It was the half-moon birthmark that jogged my memory," Mendoza confided, braking for a stop sign. "Remembered reading about it before in the memo my boss sent around about a year back. Said you'd called him direct to ask us to keep an eye peeled. Then when I read the new flyer, it clicked."
Grady reached for the roll of
antacids again. How many similar calls had he made? Hundreds? Thousands? Damn near maxed out his Visa card paying toll charges. If he had to, he'd beg the bank to raise his credit limit—and work security to make the payments.
"Tell me about this couple you picked up," he said, glancing Mendoza's way.
"Not a lot to tell yet, Captain." The agent checked the mirror, then pulled out to pass an ancient VW bus with Mexican plates. "IDs are in the names of Moira and Lance Wilson, good forgeries, but phony. Anglos, both of them. Mid-thirties, fancy label, teeth-bonded types. Claimed to own a gift shop in Old Town San Diego, and in fact they do have part interest, though some guy named Barger runs it. Retro-hippie type, no known record. Way I figure it the 'Wilsons' bought into the shop in order to use the buying trips as a cover for their trips south. Had the back of the van piled with pots and wrought iron, typical Mexican exports. Claimed to be man and wife—until the computer spit out a long list of aliases. Don't know for sure what names are on their original birth certificates, but we're checking. Far as we can tell, they've never made it to the altar—at least not together. There's also no record of children born to either of them."
Grady fought a surge of excitement. Mixing emotion with logic was a rookie mistake. He'd taken a bullet once because he'd ignored that basic fact.
"You dig up anything to suggest a link to Rustakov?"
"Not yet." Mendoza braked, checked for traffic, then swung the Jeep into a driveway on the left. "This is it," he said as he cut the engine. "In a few minutes you'll know."
* * *
"Nights are the worst. I … I hear her c-crying, and I get up to go to her but—" Brenda Benteen's voice broke, and she buried her face in her hands.
Several of the other women seated in a ragged circle around the basement room fought their own tears. The newest member of the group, Anne Williams, a strikingly beautiful high-school senior who'd once dreamed of being Miss America before she'd had an illegitimate stillborn child, bit her lip as she passed the tissue box to the now sobbing Brenda.
ONCE MORE A FAMILY Page 3