The phone rang and rang. Mark’s fingers tightened around the phone as fury warmed his face.
‘Kowalski.’
‘About damned time,’ Mark snapped. ‘What the hell are you doing?’
The man on the other end of the phone was silent for a moment, and Mark, thinking he was going to hang up, regretted the ire in his tone.
‘I’m working.’
Working? What the hell did that mean? Working on finding Darcy? Or working on another job? Had he interrupted something, like another hit? The thought was enough to chill the anger in his veins.
‘Have you seen the news?’ Mark bit out, his voice dropping an octave.
‘Seen it? I was almost part of it.’
Mark took a deep breath. He wanted to scream, to rant at the man over his stupidity. But, well, Kowalski killed people for a living. No need to piss off the hitman.
‘It needs to look like an accident.’ There. Much calmer.
Kowalski made some sort of wheezing noise, and Mark frowned. Was he – was that a laugh?
‘As far as everyone else is concerned, it’s an accident.’
Mark eyed the frozen image of the campervan blast on his screen. ‘Well, it was a bloody spectacular accident. Christ, you killed a cop.’
Again, there was silence on the phone. ‘No, I didn’t. Like I said, it was an accident. The firies are saying it was a leaky gas tank in the Kombi. Happens sometimes, in these older vehicles. She used gas for cooking and heating in the van. According to everyone, including you, it was an accident.’
Mark sagged against his desk. ‘A goddamn accident.’ And she’d still managed to survive, damn it. She was like a goddamned cat.
‘Where is she, now?’
‘Well, see, there’s a problem. She took off in a chopper with St James and his kids.’
Mark swore. He’d met St James once, at a charity event. Had tried to interest him in the investment. The man was…cold. He’d had the eyes of a wolf: crystal clear and just as sharp. And predatory. Everyone networked at that sort of event, yet St James had looked at him with barely masked scorn when he’d broached the opportunity with him. Of course, it hadn’t helped that apparently it was a St James event, and that the investment had absolutely nothing to do with the charity. What the hell did he care what happened to orphaned kids? Puh-lease. Although it had given him the idea to form his own charity – one where he was the CEO, and people paid him over four hundred dollars a plate for a meal. But, yeah, St James was a cold, canny shark. He didn’t like the fact that his secretary was now getting cosy with one of the most powerful men in the country.
‘Find her. Make her go away.’
‘I will. Do you know how many places that St James guy owns? I’m narrowing the search, but it’s going to take time.’
‘I want her gone, damn it.’
‘She’ll get gone. And I’ll get my money.’
‘Yeah, well, no more screw-ups. Get the job—’ Mark stopped when he heard the dial tone in his ear. Damn rude prick.
He shoved the phone back into his pocket, and a photo on his desk caught his eye. It had been taken at a school picnic. For once, the family had been happy. Liz had been laughing, and the smiles of his two daughters as he tickled them in front of the camera showed pure joy.
He sighed. His wife barely spoke to him these days. And his girls? Well, they stormed home after school and slammed their bedroom doors shut. He missed those happier days, when his family still acted like he was some sort of god, gazing at him with adoration and awe. Now they glared at him with bitter recrimination, all because Darcy the bitch had turned malicious. She was the reason his marriage was a winter wasteland, why his daughters’ devotion now seemed like ashes in the wind. She deserved the torture of seven hells, damn it. And she was going to get it.
Just the thought had his spine straightening. He may be out on bail, his finances frozen, but it was a temporary situation. He was taking action, taking the power. He pulled the phone from his pocket and dialled another number he hadn’t used for a while.
‘Hello?’ The voice was sleepy and curled inside him with feminine invitation.
‘I’m coming over, Cassandra.’
There was a gasp, then something like a purr. ‘Hurry.’
He disconnected the call, and gazed briefly at the photo, his wife’s laughing face catching his eye. Cassandra didn’t think he was a Neanderthal.
No, Cassandra still thought he was a god. He smiled as he strode out of his office.
CHAPTER
8
Darcy jerked awake, wincing as pain shot through her shoulder and down her arm. She sucked in a quick, quiet breath and blinked the perspiration out of her eyes as her heart slowed from its thunderous pace.
A nightmare.
That’s all it was. A stupid, insubstantial puff of a dream, damn it. The sensation of drowning, of panic – two little figures in the back of a car, and no matter how hard she swam, or how long she battled against the current, she couldn’t reach them. In her dream, they’d all died. Her mouth was dry, and her muscles were stiff and sore, as though she’d done a bootcamp workout. She had to consciously relax each muscle group. She swallowed, trying to get moisture down her dry throat.
Well, it was a change from the other nightmares…but it was only a dream. Only a dream. She was fine. The kids were fine. Only a dream.
She glanced beyond the bed. The room was still gloomy. The night before, she’d closed the lightweight gossamer curtains, and left the heavier drapes to frame the window. Now, the sky outside was only just lightening to a dull grey. Kind of like the water in her dream. She lay there for a moment, trying to calm herself, getting her bearings. After spending four months in the back of the campervan or on the floor of a tent, it was disconcerting to have four walls and a roof, along with smooth sheets and hushed air-conditioning.
She finally noticed the small body warming her side, and frowned. What the…?
She turned, squinting in the darkness, listening. Faint gusts of breath washed over her uninjured arm. A light snore whispered in the dark room. Long hair draped across her arm, and she smiled when she made out the shape next to her in the bed.
Julia.
The girl snuggled closer in her sleep, snuffling gently against Darcy’s arm.
Darcy lay there for a while, listening, regulating her own pants to the relaxed, calm breathing of the child. There was something so humbling, so powerful, in having the little body lying next to her. There was trust, unspoken yet overt. Julia didn’t care about her sins, her transgressions. She’d lost her mother in the most painful, horrific way, and that had peeled back the layers. What did she see that Darcy didn’t? Couldn’t?
Memories of the accident flooded her, of the swim through murky waters, the near-suffocating need for air, the panic when she’d discovered the children weren’t breathing. That instant had peeled back the layers for Darcy, too. She’d acted without thinking, without consideration for consequences.
Maybe these kids were her redemption? Her way of paying for past sins?
She softly gathered the sleeping child in to her side and made a vow. Darcy would do anything and everything within her power to protect these children – even if it meant protecting them from her. They had shown her how valuable life was, and she was determined to honour that. In eight weeks, she would have the opportunity to make good, to restore her honour and her reputation.
She would right the wrong – or die trying.
Julia shifted, her eyes opening, and she blinked sleepily. ‘Mummy.’
Darcy’s heart tightened at the drowsy murmur, her thoughts flashing to the other occupant of the car, the one she hadn’t been able to save, and guilt crashed into her heart.
‘No, sweetie, it’s just me, Darcy,’ she whispered.
Julia sat up, looking around in confusion. ‘Oh.’ She yawned. She turned to face Darcy, and stared at her for a moment, her brow wrinkling. ‘Your eyes are funny.’
‘Kid, y
ou’re going to give me a complex,’ she muttered, before the words finally sank in. Her contacts. She wasn’t wearing her contacts. ‘I’ll be back in a minute,’ she whispered, and slid out of the bed, gasping at the sharp stinging pain whenever she moved her injured arm in a way it didn’t like.
She hurried to the bathroom, closing the door behind her. With quick, jerky movements, she put in her contacts, gasping and pressing her eyelid closed when she poked herself in the eye – the second time. Ouch. She tilted her head back and blinked. Yep, they were in. Inhaling, she turned and opened the door. Julia still sat on the bed, looking sleepy and confused.
Darcy smiled. ‘Let me take you back to your room.’
Grabbing the woven throw from the end of her bed, she draped it over Julia’s shoulders and escorted her along the dark hall to the palatial pink room. Darcy tucked Julia into bed, smoothing her hair away from her brow as the girl burrowed under her sheets, creating a cocoon around herself. The grey outside was gradually pinkening, and Darcy could hear the birds stirring in the trees.
She took the lightweight throw and wrapped herself awkwardly in it, hissing whenever her movements caused a hot arrow of pain to slice through her shoulder. She tiptoed downstairs to the kitchen. Within minutes she’d prepared a cup of tea and was sitting on one of the rattan armchairs on the verandah.
The air was warm, sultry, and she wore the light wrap more as a ward against mosquitoes than for warmth. She settled back, sitting in silence as the sky gradually lightened, sipping her tea. Horses on the lower paddock whinnied, and rosellas and magpies greeted the rising sun with their trilling chorus.
It seemed so peaceful here, so tranquil. Once upon a time, she’d blissfully slept through the early morning, ignorant to the beauty of a sunrise, tucked away in her own sheet cocoon. No more, though. Not since that night four months ago, when she’d begun running. She’d found it difficult to sleep in since then, for a number of reasons. Sleeping in a tent didn’t really encourage lie-ins. Neither did the campervan. Everyone in a caravan park tended to rise with the sun, and she’d learned to do so, too. That, and it was never too early to get on the road and drive. She had grown to love this time of the day.
But here – here was safety. She didn’t need to run. Didn’t need to pack up in the middle of the night and sneak out.
Roland had shown her around the homestead, and had explained some of the security features. Dominic St James appeared to take security very seriously. Electric fences, motion detectors, keypad codes, surveillance cameras – he had it covered. There would be no unpleasant surprises.
She leaned back into the armchair and pulled her legs up, content to watch the world awaken.
Her mug was empty when Dominic strode out of the house, dressed in shorts and a singlet that revealed strong arms and muscled thighs. He must have been working out, his body was bathed in a light sheen of sweat. He looked hot. Hot and totally gorgeous.
Darcy dropped her mug.
He turned at the clatter and smiled, his blue eyes lighting up with surprise when he saw her.
Darcy bent over and scooped up the mug, grateful for the brief distraction. It gave her enough time to put her tongue back in her mouth.
‘Good morning, Darcy. You’re up early.’ His voice was deep, hushed, as though he didn’t want to disturb the peace.
Darcy nodded. ‘I came out to enjoy the view,’ she said, her gaze skimming over the muscles on display, until she saw his eyebrow quirk. Oh God. She was salivating over her host like a hen at a strip show. She gestured at the panorama surrounding them. ‘It’s beautiful, here,’ she said. You’re beautiful.
He was. His dark hair was dishevelled, and those shorts were…short, cupping his butt and leaving most of his muscled thighs bare. And the singlet? Well, that just seemed to be a minor concession to modesty. As he turned to gaze out at the valley below, she caught sight of a dusky nipple through the singlet’s oversized armhole.
She forced herself to follow his gaze.
‘Yeah, I love it out here,’ he murmured. ‘It’s a nice break from the rat race.’
She nodded. Yes, indeed. No rats. She’d had to deal with enough of them lately.
‘So, what brings you out here so early?’ Dominic faced her, placing his hands on his hips, and Darcy found herself staring at the play of muscles across his chest and shoulders.
Her cheeks warmed. Why did she feel like some gawky teenager at a school dance? ‘Uh, I’m an early riser,’ she told him when she finally remembered to answer him. ‘What about you? Do you normally get up this early?’
Dominic grinned, and she tried to ignore the lurch in her stomach.
‘I usually get up early for a workout.’ He cocked his head. ‘If you want to use the gym, feel free.’ He nodded to her arm. ‘When you can, of course. I figure you’ll probably need to rest it for a while.’
She nodded, her smile slipping. ‘Sure, thanks.’ Her arm was supposed to be immobilised for a short time, to help reduce the swelling, and after that she was supposed to do physiotherapist-mandated exercises to strengthen the group of muscles around the shoulder joint. She managed not to snort. Physiotherapy. That was another cost she couldn’t afford, and time and commitment that could leave a trail. Still, she needed to heal, needed to build her strength, her stamina – she was going to need it. Maybe there was something she could do to build her fitness. Since that jump into the river, she’d noticed her early fatigue – the nurse had warned her to expect that, to take it easy as her body healed. She couldn’t ‘take it easy’, though – not if she was going up against Mark Shein.
‘So, do you feel like breakfast?’ Dominic asked, patting his flat stomach. Darcy nodded, again trying not to perv on her host, then decided she could perv, just not obviously. ‘Come on, let’s get something to eat. You’re going to need it.’
She arched her eyebrow as she rose from her chair. ‘I am?’
‘Yep. Your doctor mentioned that you’d need to get into a rehabilitation program as soon as possible, so I took the liberty of making a few calls. You have a physio appointment at nine o’clock, then the kids and I are going to show you around the property.’
She halted. ‘Physio?’ She couldn’t afford a physio. You had to fill out forms – and Darcy McKenzie didn’t exist in very many places, least of all in Medicare. Then there was getting to and from the physio, extra exposure. She’d learned that filling out a form was like a beacon on a runway, slowly revealing a trail to a target – her. No, she couldn’t afford a physio, on so many levels.
‘You need a physio. I’ve arranged for one to come here to the property each morning.’ He said the words calmly, as though hiring a personal physiotherapist who did home visits was of no consequence.
‘But—’
‘Relax, Darcy. Your shoulder needs treatment, and I’m making sure you get what you need. Don’t worry about the cost, we’ll take care of everything. All you need to do is show up.’
Darcy looked at him for a moment, then nodded reluctantly. It was kind of nice that he wanted to look after her. ‘Thank you,’ she said. He was trying to help, and she should accept his assistance with grace.
He followed her into the house. She should be relieved – and she was. She was getting the follow-up care she desperately needed for her shoulder. She sighed. He’d organised it without consulting her, though, and regular contact with another person was a risk she would have liked to consider before committing to it. She lifted her chin. Buck up, Darce. This can only help, right?
‘Ow,’ Darcy wheezed out, squeezing her eyes closed. That was – ow – unbelievably – argh – painful. She gritted her teeth as fingers prodded her shoulder in a parody of a massage.
‘Sorry,’ Alannah Johnson, the unapologetic physio, said. The fingers didn’t lighten in pressure. ‘I’m nearly finished.’ Her long blonde braid swung over her shoulder as she lightly dug her thumbs into Darcy’s skin.
Darcy tried to remember to breathe as pain lanced through her shou
lder and arm. The appointment had started off gently, with a heat pack placed against her shoulder, warming her muscles. Not anymore, though. She avoided looking at the woman so intent on making her pass out from pain.
‘Okay, that should do it. I’ll strap it for you, and get an icepack. You’ve got anti-inflammatories, right?’
Darcy nodded weakly. Thank God it was over.
Alannah bustled over to her bag and pulled out rolls of brightly coloured tape. ‘What do you like? Pink? Blue? Black?’ She held the rolls up, her brown eyes twinkling with amusement.
‘Uh, I don’t mind,’ Darcy murmured.
‘Great. We’ll use all three.’ The young woman shrugged. ‘May as well make it look pretty.’ She cut varying lengths of tape, and decorated Darcy’s shoulder with the coloured strips.
‘There,’ she said finally, stepping back to admire her handiwork.
Darcy glanced down. Well, it was definitely colourful. ‘Thanks,’ she muttered. She tried to pull the strap of her bra up, and Alannah quickly stepped in to assist. In a few minutes, Darcy was dressed. She sighed in relief. It was good to wear a bra. Especially around Dominic St James.
She flinched when Alannah placed a lightly wrapped icepack between her shirt and skin.
‘Keep this on for about ten minutes,’ the young physiotherapist instructed, and smiled. ‘We’ll get you shipshape in no time.’
‘So, I can get my shoulder back to working properly?’ Darcy asked quietly. That had been her main concern – that she had sustained a permanent injury, and would have not only ongoing problems, but perhaps a decrease in mobility and strength.
Alannah sat on the table she’d brought along for the appointment. ‘It’s going to take some work. You’ll have to rest it for a few weeks. No picking up anything. We’ll do some really gentle movement exercises. I’ll come in each day for a massage. In about three weeks, we’ll be able to start some gentle strengthening exercises, to build those muscles again, but at the moment we need to let the tendons heal. But, yeah, you’ll get your shoulder back.’ She held up a finger. ‘If you do exactly as you’re told. No rushing the treatment, okay?’
Runaway Lies Page 8