Wicked is the night

by Catherine Mulvany

He kissed her again, and her mental capacity degraded even further. All she wanted in that moment was for him to keep doing what he was doing with his lips and tongue and yes, with the thumb that was brushing back and forth across her nipple in the most maddening way possible.

  His mouth left hers to feather kisses across her cheekbone. “What’s our next move?” he whispered in her ear.

  “Insert tab A in slot B?”

  He laughed softly. “No more tab slotting,” he said. “Not until I buy more condoms. That wasn’t the kind of move I was talking about anyway. What I meant was, where do we go from here? How do we go about finding out who you are?”

  “I have an address in San Francisco,” she told him. “It was the only thing approaching personal information that was included in my file at the Institute.”

  Trick sat up. “The jeweler who made Blanche’s ring was from San Francisco, too.”

  “So was Blanche herself.”

  “Looks like San Francisco, here we come,” Trick said. “But first I need to shower and shave.”

  “We could shower together,” she suggested. “Save a little hot water.”

  He grinned. “Not until I buy those condoms.”

  TWELVE

  Marcello glanced up from his laptop as Britt let herself into the suite. Her face was flushed from her afternoon run, her eyes bright, her long blond hair tousled. She had never looked more desirable. He tore his gaze away from her, focusing once again on the laptop’s screen. “Did you have an enjoyable run in Pioneer Park?” he asked politely.

  “It was okay, a little windy. I had to dodge a few kids flying kites.”

  “Your cheeks are pink,” he observed before he could censor himself. Then to make matters even worse, he added. “You look very…healthy.” What madness had prompted him to make personal observations, observations that might be construed as compliments, albeit clumsy compliments?

  Britt’s color deepened, but she made no reply. “Do you need anything? A snack or whatever?”

  “I am fine,” he said.

  “Well, uh, okay then. I’m going to take a shower.”

  And did that not present a tantalizing visual? Marcello was suddenly thankful that he was sitting down.

  “Oh, wait. I almost forgot.” Britt paused with one hand on the knob of her bedroom door. “Guess who I ran into at the park?”

  A twinge of jealousy pinched at his chest. “Ethan Faraday?”

  “Who?” she said, looking puzzled.

  “Faraday. He stayed here a while back.”

  “Oh, right,” Britt said. “I remember. Big guy with cowboy boots and permanent beard stubble, looks kind of like Matthew McConaughey.”

  “Matthew…?”

  “Movie star,” Britt said. “And no, it wasn’t Faraday. It was Jonathan Calhoun from the Midas Lake Historical Society.”

  “I am not familiar—”

  “He’s the one who’s been helping Nevada research Trick’s ghost.”

  “I see.”

  “Seems he found a tell-all letter written by Silas Granger and addressed to Blanche. It was wedged into one of the brothel ledgers.”

  “Fascinating, I am sure.”

  “It will be to Nevada. Jonathan said he planned to call her with the news, but I told him she was out of town. Did Trick say anything when you talked to him about when he planned to check in next?”

  “This evening sometime.”

  “Any idea where they are?”

  “No.” Marcello frowned. “And I prefer it that way. I cannot reveal what I do not know.”

  Fear flickered across Britt’s face. “You think he’ll come back, don’t you? The man who…”

  “Tortured me? It is all right to say it. And yes, I think he will return. I also think that if he can find me, he will torture ›e wheimore secrets from me.” He paused, frowning unseeingly at his laptop’s screen. “I never questioned my own integrity, never dreamed I would betray another to protect myself, but all it took to persuade me to talk was a few cigarette burns. The worst part is, I know in my heart I would do it again. That is why I do not want to know where Trick and Nevada have gone or what they are doing.” He took a calming breath. “When Trick does contact me, I will pass on the information about the letter. Nevada can contact Mr. Calhoun.”

  Britt’s expression softened. “You’re too hard on yourself, Marcello. You think you’re a coward, but you’re not. Anyone would have caved in that situation.”

  He did not respond. What was the point in arguing? Britt could make all the excuses she wanted, but he knew the truth. A truly brave man would not have talked. No matter what.

  They’d checked out of the motel almost three hours late, which meant Trick had had to pay for an extra night. Nevada had felt a little guilty about that expense on top of the truly sumptuous lunch Trick had treated her to, so when he pulled into a mall, she was moved to protest. “Why are we stopping here?”

  “If we expect to stay with my great-aunt Leticia for the next few days, we’ll need proper luggage.”

  “We’re staying with your great-aunt Leticia?”

  “I figure it’ll be easier to keep a low profile if we stay at a private residence instead of registering at a hotel.”

  “Okay, but what is your great-aunt going to think when we just show up on her doorstep with no warning?”

  “She’s had warning. I called her earlier while you were in the shower.”

  “And she didn’t mind the unexpected company?”

  “Mind? She was ecstatic. The woman adores entertaining, and I’m her favorite great-nephew.”

  “Meaning what?” Nevada asked, skepticism edging her voice. “You’re her only great-nephew?”

  “Yes.” Trick grinned. “But that’s beside the point.” He got out of the Jeep, then came around to open Nevada’s door. “Time to shop.”

  She let him help her out and herd her toward the mall entrance. “Shop for what?”

  “I told you already. We’ll need proper luggage and all the clothing and toiletries necessary to fill it.”

  “And we’re going to pay for this how? If you think I’m going to squander my little hoard of hard-earned cash just to impress your great-aunt—”

  “It’s not Great-aunt Leticia who worries me. It’s Rivers, her butler. The man’s a dreadful snob, not to mention a terrible gossip.”

  “But—”

  “Low profile,” he reminded her. “We want to fly under the radar. Hell, just think of it as camouflage.”

  “But—”

  “Money’s not a problem.” He dug a stack of hundreds from his wallet and handed it to her.

  “But I thought…”

  “What?”

  “I thought you were virtually broke. Marcello said…”

  “Marcello said what?”

  “That your former financial adviser had run off with all your money.”

  “Not all my money,” he said. “Just most of it. I still have assets in excess of a million dollars. Of course in Granger terms, that makes me a pauper.”

  “I see.” She frowned. “There’s poor, and then there’s Granger poor.”

  He grinned. “Otherwise known as middle class.”

  Daniel surveyed the crowd gathered at the Papillon Mall for the Mother’s Day Weekend Blow-Out Sale. Carlos Santiago-Ortiz, his campaign manager, had arranged for Daniel, front runner in the race to be named the Democratic candidate for governor, to say a few words prior to the kickoff of the afternoon’s special event, a donkey basketball game in the center courtyard. After all, what said Mother’s Day like donkey basketball?

  “I bet you could count the registered voters on the fingers of one hand,” Daniel whispered to his stepmother, Regina. Still beautiful at fifty, Regina just smiled and waved to the crowd, as if she, not he, were the one running for office.

  “You’re up,” Carlos said, passing Daniel the microphone.

  He launched into his prepared speech, full of humorous anecdotes and a saccharine refe
rence to Regina, then finished with a joke at the current governor’s expense, earning laughter, applause, and a few cheers.

  With a smile glued to his face, he endured half an hour of baby kissing and handshaking before his security people started moving him toward the exit and the waiting limo.

  A few feet from the exit, Regina suddenly leaned forward and squeezed his arm. “Look! Over there by the bookstore. I could have sworn…but no. That’s absurd.”

  “What’s absurd?” he asked, distracted by a glimpse of a seven-foot-tall basketball player riding past on a four-foot-tall donkey.

  “I saw a woman, and for a second, I thought it was Whitney.”

  Daniel stopped dead in his tracks. “Whitney? Are you sure?”

  Regina gave her trademark tinkle of laughter. “No, silly. Of course, it wasn’t Whitney. I just thought so for an instant. Something about her profile.”

  “Where?” Daniel demanded, his gaze darting about the mall’s enormous central court.

  “She was over by the bookstore, but she’s long gone now.” Regina, more accustomed to sycophantic cajolery than abrupt demands, spoke haughtily.

  Damn it. Was it possible? Could he be this lucky?

  “Carlos!” he raised his voice just enough to catch his campaign manager’s attention.

  “Yes, Representative Snowden?” Carlos turned to face him. “Is there a problem?”

  “I want you to do me a favor.” He dug a picture from his wallet and handed it to the other man.

  Carlos glanced at the photograph, then back up at Daniel, confusion written across his face. “Yes, sir?”

  “Have some of the security team members stay behind and search for the young woman in this picture.”

  He turned to his stepmother. “What was she wearing, Regina?”

  “I don’t remember. Nothing special. Certainly not a designer label.”

  “Slacks? A dress?”

  “No, jeans and a sweater, I think. Possibly a sweatshirt.”

  “What color?”

  “Black. No, navy. No, black, or maybe a very dark green.” His impatience must have shown, because her nostrils flared. “Don’t give me that pissy look, Daniel. I told you I didn’t remember.”

  Wincing mentally, hoping no one of consequence had overheard that “pissy,” Daniel glued an amiable expression on his face.

  “I don’t see why you’re making such a fuss anyway. Let’s just go,” Regina said. “The limo’s waiting.”

  “You go. I’ll be there in a minute. I need a word in private with Carlos.”

  She shot him a narrow-eyed look, then flounced toward the exit.

  He waited until she’d disappeared from sight before turning once again to his campaign manager.

  At first, Nevada had thought she was being completely paranoid. How ridiculous, she’d lectured herself, to feel so exposed, so vulnerable in a cheerfully crowded public venue like a shopping mall. But she hadn’t been able to quell her jitters.

  Twice now, she’d caught people staring at her as if she were some sort of three-headed monster. She’d shrugged it off the first time, telling herself that the woman she’d thought was gaping at her had really been looking at someone behind her, most likely one of the bizarre donkey-mounted basketball players that had seemed to be everywhere.

  But the second time, there hadn’t been any donkey-mounted basketball players around. In fact, there hadn’t been anyone much around when she’d noticed the young man in a suit staring fixedly at her. So naturally, when she’d seen him speak into a walkie-talkie, she’d panicked and raced to the nearest women’s restroom.

  Which was a great solution in the short term, since it seemed fairly unlikely that Mr. Walkie-Talkie would come barging into the restroom after her. As a long-term solution, however, her restroom hideout left something to be desired, because really› bee-T all Mr. Walkie-Talkie had to do was wait for her to make a break for it. And what was worse, he was probably using the damned walkie-talkie to call up reinforcements. Possibly even female reinforcements.

  Okay, she told herself, get a grip. Just because the guy was wearing a suit didn’t mean he was in cahoots with the monsters who’d chased her across the country. Lots of people wore suits. Lawyers and salesmen and funeral home directors. Professors and ministers and stockbrokers. But why take chances, especially when the risks were so high? Best case scenario, she could end up back in the Appleton Institute. Worst case scenario, she could end up an exsanguinated corpse.

  She stared at the dusky pink walls of the stall where she’d been hiding for the last ten minutes and racked her brains for a workable escape plan. Okay, plan one: She could walk out into the hall and scream her head off if Mr. Walkie-Talkie so much as glanced in her direction. The possible drawback here was that such behavior was just as likely to get her tossed in the loony bin as it was to get him tossed in jail. So, she needed to keep thinking.

  Plan two: She could escape out the window. Or not. By standing upright on the toilet, she could see over the stalls to the far wall. No windows. Not even a vent.

  Which brought her to plan three. She could take a page out of the Hollywood playbook and escape through the heating-slash-air-conditioning ducts. Only that would require her to stand on someone’s shoulders in order to reach the ceiling panels, and she didn’t see anyone volunteering for that job.

  Or…

  A small mob of teenagers had come in a few minutes ago to primp in front of the mirror. If she timed her departure to coincide with theirs…Yes, it just might work.

  She flushed the empty toilet, then emerged from her cubicle and made her way to the row of sinks on the opposite wall. She rushed through the handwashing ritual, tossing a handful of paper towels at the waste bin before crowding her way into the middle of the pack of teens as they moved toward the exit.

  Mr. Walkie-Talkie was right where he’d been when she’d first spotted him. Only now, he had company, a second man in a suit equipped with his own walkie-talkie. Luckily, she spotted them before they had a chance to spot her. She managed to pass within five feet of the pair without being seen by keeping a chunky girl in a lacy olive-drab tunic and camo-patterned leggings between her and them.

  When she saw Trick waiting for her under the big clock in the food court just as they’d arranged earlier, she was so relieved, she nearly burst into tears.

  “Let’s get out of here,” she said, doing her best to hustle him along.

  “Wouldn’t you like something to drink?” he asked. “Shopping is thirsty work.”

  So she told him about Mr. Walkie-Talkie.

  “You say both men had walkie-talkies?” He started in the direction of the escalators, but she dragged him toward the staircase instead.

  “Right.” Nevada all but ran down the steps, dodging awkwardly around other shoppers, trying not to take anyone out with her heavy, overstuffed shopping ›t cl bbags. She paused for a second at the bottom to let Trick catch up.

  “Guys with walkie-talkies sound more like mall security to me than bad guys.”

  “You didn’t see the way he stared at me, Trick.”

  “Could be there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for that.”

  “Such as?” she challenged, edging around the outside of the central court where the donkey basketball game was still in full swing.

  “Maybe someone reported a shoplifter and you fit the description.”

  “Okay,” she conceded as they slipped out the main doors into the parking lot. “You could be right, and I could be paranoid, but—”

  “But nothing.” Trick grabbed her arm and pulled her down into a crouching position behind a big Dodge Ram pickup.

  “What is it?” she asked, trying to peer around the truck’s rear bumper.

  “Let’s just say I’m wrong, and you’re not paranoid. Men in suits are watching the Wrangler.”

  “The Wrangler? So friends of Sarge’s then. Mall security wouldn’t know what we were driving.”

  “Friends of Sarge
maybe, but not vampires,” Trick said.

  “How can you be sure? Oh! Because they’re standing around outside in the sunlight,” she said, answering her own question. “A major vampire no-no.” She shot Trick a sideways glance. “Any idea how we can get to the Wrangler, unlock the doors, slip inside, and drive out of the parking lot without being seen?”

  He shot her an exasperated look. “Not unless you know a foolproof invisibility spell.”

  “Sorry,” she said. “My crazy doesn’t come in that flavor.”

  “I didn’t think so.”

  “So what’s our next move?” she asked. “This escape’s on your shoulders. I used up a year’s worth of ingenuity sneaking out of that restroom.”

  “Well,” he said, “we could find an unlocked car and hot-wire it.”

  “Steal a car? Surely there’s another way.”

  “I hope so,” he said, “because I’m not sure I could hot-wire a car.”

  She shrugged. “I suppose we could walk out to the main street and hitchhike from there. Or not,” she added when she saw his expression. “I told you I’d used up my quota of ingenuity. Your turn.”

  He chewed thoughtfully on his lower lip. “How about this? I call a taxi on my cell phone. The taxi takes us to the airport where we rent a car and then drive to my great-aunt’s house in San Francisco.”

  Nevada squeezed his hand. “That just might work.”

  Itchy.›dthst That was how Marcello felt, as if he had been cooped up for months instead of a day. He needed to exercise his body, not just his self-control.

  Britt was driving him insane. Not on purpose, but still, it was the end result that mattered. Being around her all day every day—seeing her first thing in the morning in a figure-hugging tank top and silky pajama bottoms, her eyes sleepy, her hair falling around her shoulders in sexy disarray, and last thing at night as she moved with sinuous grace through her ritual pilates routine, her skin flushed, her eyes bright—was enough to drive any man insane with lust, let alone a man who had been infatuated with her for months. If he did not use up some of this excess energy, he was going to explode. Or do something inexcusable.