“What’s she look like? Big titties, I hope.”
“Nah,” he said, studying the dingy white shoelaces on his black canvas tennis shoes. “I mean, I couldn’t really tell.” Now, that was a blatant lie. His eyes had eaten up Carly Fortune’s lace-covered breasts like they were candy, and he knew their size and shape well enough to sculpt them from memory.
In fact, he’d probably be doing some inadvertent pillow-sculpting tonight, tossing and turning until he fell into a fitful sleep.
“Blond or brunette? Tall or short?”
“Blond,” he said, warming up to the idea of lying. He’d never bring Carly back here anyway, so the deception was a petty rebellion, a last-ditch form of self-preservation. The old man had a heavy hand and ready fists, but he couldn’t abuse everything. He couldn’t read James’ mind, or steal his dreams. “Not very tall. Short hair, too,” he added, thinking of the long, silky black strands hanging down Carly’s slender back. Yowza.
“Short hair?” Arlen let out a derisive laugh. “Are you sure it was a female? Hell, boy, you’re so stupid, you wouldn’t know the difference. Half-queer, as it is.”
James didn’t bother to respond to this familiar charge; his mind went carefully blank. He wanted to be alone with his thoughts, to replay his conversation with Carly, to fantasize about what might have been and what could never be. He’d keep every detail about her private. Cherish it, maybe. God knew he had precious little else to hold close to the vest: his dad controlled every shitty moment of James’ fucked-up life.
James sighed, wishing he were somewhere else. Someone else.
“Did you get me that bottle?”
“Yessir.” He pulled the pint from his jacket pocket, relieved to have moved on to topics mundane. He stepped forward in the gloom, handing it in the direction of the winking cigarette and hoping for a quick getaway.
“Not so fast.” A strong hand clamped on to his shoulder, forcing him down on the couch next to the recliner. “Take a load off.”
He heard the familiar sounds of his father un-screwing the cap, the unmistakable glug-glug of potable liquid, the hiss of hot breath after a good chug.
“Drink?”
It wasn’t really open for debate, so James took the bottle and brought it to his lips, pretending to take a healthy swig. His dad always got drunk faster, and passed out quicker, when he had a little company to help him along.
CHAPTER 5
Ben wouldn’t have forced the issue, but Carly insisted on going to school the next morning. It was the last day before Christmas vacation and she had finals. If nothing else, Carly was a conscientious student, and Ben never had to remind her to study or complete her homework.
When he was her age, he dropped out of school, much to his parents’ dismay. After he brought home more earnings the following year than his dad, a well-respected (and well-paid) judge, they’d stopped complaining.
Or he’d stopped listening. By the time he turned seventeen, he’d owned a pricey bachelor pad in Pacific Beach, a swank upper-floor condo where there were no rules, no curfews, and the party never ended.
Finances aside, Ben counted it as a mistake. In those formative years, he’d had too much money, too much success, and too many greedy people telling him he was God’s gift to surfing. He’d thought he was indestructible, and on the water, he was. It was on land, with those earthly delights, that he’d run into trouble.
In his mid-twenties, after he’d cleaned up his act, he’d gotten a GED and gone on to college. By then, he was no longer a drunk, but he was still an obnoxious ass, overdue for a rude awakening. His professors didn’t give a shit about surfing and weren’t impressed by the size of his bank account. Sure, he could make money, but did he have any idea how to calculate his quarterly interest?
As it turned out, spending all your free time partying and sleeping around didn’t make you a genius. Who’d have thought?
Ben drove Carly to school in silence, wondering if it was his faulty wiring and addictive genes that made her who she was. It was easy, but not particularly productive, to blame himself for her problems.
“I’m picking you up, too,” he said as she stepped out at La Jolla Shores High School. Ben guessed it wasn’t fashionable to wear a backpack anymore, because Carly always carried a small stack of books and a tiny, outrageously expensive designer handbag.
“Lisette’s staying over tonight,” she reminded him, tucking a wisp of hair behind her ear.
“Hell, no, she isn’t.”
“Dad. Her parents are going to Big Bear. I asked you a month ago.”
He swore sulkily, remembering that Lisette’s mom had called and made the plans herself because Lisette couldn’t be trusted home alone. She was even more of a wild child than Carly. The last time the Bruebakers had left her in charge, she’d thrown a ten-keg rager on the west lawn. “Fine,” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his tired face. “But you’re still grounded, so you two aren’t going anywhere. And no pot!”
Carly rolled her eyes as she slammed the door, a good sign she was feeling more like herself. Any other morning, Ben would have spent several hours in the ocean already. Carly was so self-reliant that she usually made breakfast, got ready, and went to school under her own steam. He thought he was being cool, letting her have her independence. Now he could see that he’d given her freedom when what she’d really needed was his attention.
He stretched his neck, trying to relieve the ache brought on by several nights of too much stress and too little sleep. On impulse, he took out his cell phone and dialed the number for Scripps Hospital as he drove away.
A crisp-voiced operator asked how she could direct his call.
“I’m trying to solve a mystery,” he said in a conspiratorial tone, trying to lay on the charm. It sounded pretty rusty. “A woman saved my daughter from drowning the other night and I’d like to thank her.”
The operator made a mew of sympathy.
“In the chaos, I didn’t catch her full name,” he continued, “and I’d like to send her a token of my appreciation. Is there any way you can take a peek at the emergency report and see if it lists her address?”
“Oh, sir, I’d love to give you that information, but-”
“Ben,” he interrupted helpfully, keeping his fingers crossed. “My name is Ben Fortune.”
She hesitated. “Ben…Fortune?”
“Yes.”
Clearing her throat, she said, “Well, I think we can make an exception, just this once…”
Sonny was getting out of the shower when a loud, warbled sound alerted her. She wrapped a towel around herself and listened for a few seconds before she realized that the strange, off-key melody was her front doorbell.
Curious, she peered through the peephole. Ben Fortune’s image was distorted by the warped glass. Interesting. How had he found out where she was staying?
When a shiver of awareness traveled down her spine, she didn’t lie to herself and call it unease. Having a suspect invade her turf should have made her feel apprehensive, not excited, but she’d always been a little twisted.
He raised his hand to depress the buzzer again, so she opened the door. “Don’t do it. I can’t tolerate that particular combination of sounds this early in the morning.” She smiled, pleased with her pre-caffeine wit.
He didn’t smile back. “Can I come in?”
“Sure,” she said, studying his face. He was a damned fine-looking man, even with bloodshot eyes and a hard, tense mouth.
She stepped aside, inclining her hand in invitation.
Her apartment had come furnished with thrift-store rejects and bargain buys. The brown wool couch, with its scratchy cushions and sharp, rectangular shape, looked like a throwback from the seventies. It was so uncomfortable people must have been avoiding it for decades, because it was still in good condition.
A lacquered oak coffee table and green vinyl armchair, also genuinely retro, and undeniably ugly, were the only other points of interest.
�
�Like what I’ve done with the place?”
“No,” he said, not bothering with diplomacy.
She frowned. “Do you want to sit down?”
“Not really.” His eyes moved from her breasts to the tops of her thighs, lingering everywhere skin met terry cloth.
Discomfited by his perusal, she did a slow sweep of his body, proving that two could play at ogling the opposite sex. He was wearing a sky blue T-shirt that clung to the muscles of his chest and faded jeans that hung loosely on his hips. Instead of shoes, he had on a pair of ancient brown flip-flops, the kind only men with good-looking feet could pull off, and only then if they were near a beach. His were long, narrow, and tanned, like his hands.
He couldn’t have appeared more casual, but she could tell by his rigid stance, his fists clenched at his sides, that he was far from relaxed.
“Coffee?” she offered, making one last attempt at hospitality. She didn’t have much, but she did have a coffeemaker, and fresh brew.
“No.”
Dare she ask? “What do you want?”
When she moistened her lips in anticipation, something dark flashed in his eyes. Almost unconsciously, she retreated, not aware of what she was doing until she felt the wall at her back. Stepping forward, he braced his left hand against the wall, beside her head. He had an interesting mouth, she thought, fixating on it. There was a small scar just above his upper lip, on the right side-a thin line, like a fingernail crescent.
He leaned in, putting his face very close to hers. “You lied.”
She was so hypnotized by his mouth that the words coming out of it didn’t immediately register. “I did?”
“You said you lived a mile away. My house is right across the street.”
“I-” She broke off, feeling breathless. “I was disoriented.”
“I called Scripps Hospital for your address, and they told me the emergency report says you gave Carly’s name when you called nine-one-one. You knew who she was. At my house, you pretended not to.”
Comprehension dawned. “Is that why you think I went in after her? To cozy up to you? Squeeze you for some cash?”
“Maybe.”
Indignation burned through her. “Screw you.”
“Okay.” His response was flat, almost nonchalant, but she knew he was serious. “How do you want it? Because I’m in the mood for hard and fast.”
It was probably the least romantic proposition she’d ever heard. And the most tempting. Ben Fortune was a very dangerous man if he could insult her and titillate her in the same breath. In her mind she told him to go to hell, but her throat closed up around the words.
His gaze locked on the curve of her lips and he hesitated, as if not quite certain how to proceed. Ironically it was she who leaned into him, pushing away from the wall and tilting her head back in brazen invitation.
And when he took her up on that sensual offer, closing the final distance between them, it was also she who panicked. She felt the full length of his hard body against hers, and just like always, she panicked. Before he had a chance to kiss her, she hooked her foot behind his ankle and shoved at his chest with enough force to send him crashing to the floor.
For a moment, he just stared at her, a stunned look on his face. Then he scanned the room for other assailants, as if she’d attacked him as part of a nefarious plot. Seeing no imminent threat, he raised himself up on his elbows. “Why did you do that?” he asked, truly bewildered.
Sonny crossed her arms over her chest and looked down at her bare toes, feeling heat creep into her cheeks. “You were crowding me.”
“I wasn’t going to force myself on you.”
Her head jerked up. “I know,” she replied. Strangely enough, her reaction had nothing to do with his status as a suspect. It was more about her past than about him.
For a moment there, she hadn’t been thinking about the case at all.
Warily, he motioned for her to stay back. “I’m going to get up and go now. No sudden moves, okay?”
“I apologize,” she said, wanting to kick herself for making such an obvious blunder. Grant would have a conniption fit if he knew she’d broken character. “Please don’t leave. Sit down for a minute. Did I hurt you?”
He laughed with more derision than mirth. “Only my pride.”
As he staggered over to her living room couch, her gaze dropped to the seat of his jeans. They fit loose, but the muscles underneath appeared very firm indeed. “Is that where you keep it?” she murmured. “In your back pocket?”
Recovering his composure with remarkable ease, he made himself comfortable on her outdated couch, taking up as much space as humanly possible. “Why don’t you check and see?” he suggested, flashing her that signature, off-center grin.
Of course, her attention was drawn to his front pockets, and the well-worn fly of his jeans. Annoyed with herself for looking, and for liking what she saw, she went behind the kitchen counter to pour a cup of coffee.
“Why are you afraid of men?”
“Why are you afraid of women?” she shot back at him.
“Who says I am?”
She could hardly admit she’d been investigating him, or that she’d seen his evade-and-retreat routine all over the beach. But she needed him to reveal something about himself, to deflect the attention away from her. “Carly told me you don’t date.”
“Carly,” he choked, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t want to talk about Carly.”
“Fair enough,” she said, taking a sip from her cup. “Sure you don’t want some?”
“I don’t drink coffee.”
“You’re a regular goody two-shoes, aren’t you?”
He narrowed his eyes at the provocative remark. “I’m not afraid of women,” he said, studying her face. “Except maybe you.”
“You avoid them, don’t you?” She waited for his answer, sipping coffee.
When he hesitated, she wondered if he was thinking about his wife. He looked almost guilty, as if he’d just betrayed her memory. Perhaps he wasn’t as unflappable, or as innocent, as he pretended to be. “I’ve had a lot of them come on to me, on tour, at contests,” he said, staring down at his hands. “I got tired of it.”
“Tired of adoring women? That would be a first.”
“Sometimes it was more than adoring.”
“Really? Do tell,” she cooed.
“Don’t patronize me,” he replied, having no trouble reading her flippancy. “I’m not the one whose overreactions border on assault and battery.”
“You’re right. Forget I asked.”
Her casual dismissal of the subject irked him, as was her intention. “If I tell you, will you show me what you’ve got underneath that towel?”
“Not today,” she said.
His eyes roved over her body with undisguised interest. “On a publicity tour in Japan, a girl grabbed me and wouldn’t let go.”
“Grabbed you where?”
He gave her a pointed look. “Where do you think?”
She hid a smile behind her coffee cup.
“I’m kind of big over there, no pun intended, and until that day, I didn’t realize how popular I was. The crowd got a little wild, she got a good hold, some bodyguard pulled me the other way, and-” He saw her expression. “What? You think this is funny?”
She gave up trying to hold in her laughter. “Sorry. It’s not. It’s really not.”
“You’re damned right it’s not. I was out of commission for weeks.”
“No surfing?”
“I could still surf.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.” He paused, considering. “Something like that happened to you?”
“My story isn’t as cute as yours.”
He shrugged, leaning back to listen anyway.
Feeling a mild panic, she glanced at the clock on the coffeemaker. “You’re sweet, but I’ve got to be somewhere in an hour.”
His eyes widened with disbelief. Obviously, he wasn’t accustomed to being sum
marily dismissed. She was willing to bet no woman had ever told him he was sweet, or called him a goody two-shoes, or laid him out on the ground like a pile of bricks, either.
To his credit, he was persistent. But then, a man didn’t become a world champion by heading in when the surf got rough. “Sure you don’t want to drop that towel?”
“I’m naked underneath this towel.”
“I know.”
Keeping it carefully closed and firmly in place, she showed him to the door. On his way out he gave her a hungry look, the kind designed to melt a woman’s resolve. It took every ounce of strength she possessed to act unaffected.
Sonny didn’t exhale until she shut the door behind him. Willing her pulse to stop racing, she wondered how long it would take him to realize she hadn’t answered his question.
She never told him how she knew Carly’s name.
Otay Mesa Prison, where Darrius O’Shea had been an inmate, was the only maximum security prison in San Diego County. It was a sprawling expanse of concrete buildings and sun-baked earth, located near the depressingly dusty and appropriately named Brown Field, within a stone’s throw of the border.
Freedom beckoned from beyond heavy chain-link fences and snarling curls of razor wire, so close the prisoners could almost taste it.
Sonny was asked to turn in her service revolver and sign a release form before she went inside, a process she was familiar with, having visited jails before.
Her brother, Rigo, had been incarcerated for most of his adult life.
She didn’t care to be stripped of her weapon, especially considering the facility’s “enter at your own risk” policy. Like the U.S. government, Otay Mesa Prison refused to negotiate for hostages.
“I’d rather hold on to my SIG,” she said to a bored-looking guard.
“It could be taken from you,” he explained unnecessarily.
She studied the gun belt at his slim waist, thinking about how easy it would be to give him a swift, efficient demonstration of her skill. “Whatever,” she said instead, removing the holster at her hip and handing it over.
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