To bed. The investigation could wait until tomorrow.
* * * * *
The following morning, she and Michael left, without a word to anyone except a quick good-bye to Mrs. Fox when she ran out to the car with bagels. They went back to the apartment and then straight to the airport where the Reynolds Industries fleet of jets were housed. They were going back to Texas, since the investigation Michael had commissioned on Mick O’Malley had shown conclusively that he had come into a large sum recently. Given the situation in the Hamptons, Michael wanted to know from where.
Vanny had long since stopped questioning that she and Michael were joined at the hip as far as he was concerned, even when Samantha pointed out to her privately that it wasn’t his norm with his mistresses.
“Usually, he can’t get away from them fast enough once he’s out of bed with them. Although of course, now you’ve met Tiffany, you can probably see why.” This was before they learned Tiffany had been murdered of course.
But she and Michael had been together a scant two weeks. A rich man would undoubtedly tire of his new plaything before long.
And lord, Michael Reynolds was rich. In the plush cranberry-leather armchairs of the G-IV jet, with the two of them buckled in for takeoff across from each other, she asked, “Forget about bunk beds. Have you ever flown commercial?”
He was reading the Sunday Times and glanced at her over the top of the newspaper. “Is that a trick question?”
“No. I just want to know.”
“No, I haven’t. Does that shock you?”
It did actually and she said no more as the plane smoothly taxied and then headed over the clouds away from the blinding sun once they’d reached altitude.
Maybe it was that they were about to go accuse a man who’d been an uncle to her of planting bombs and rendering his best friend paralyzed and who knew what else. Or maybe it was because every taste she got of Michael’s world was way too rich for her. In bed, in his arms, they were equal, wonderfully, wildly compatible. But out of it, he was too much. Just way too much.
And she had to stop all this at some point. It wasn’t about a job anymore either. It was about her heart.
“Goddamn it.”
Michael looked up and she realized she’d said it out loud.
“I think I’m having a good effect on you, Vanny. I think your swearing is cutting down to acceptable levels.”
“Yeah, someday you might even be able to be seen with me,” she muttered.
“What the hell does that mean?” He put down his paper.
“Nothing. Never mind.”
He unbuckled his seatbelt and sat in the armchair next to her, unbuckling hers so he could pull her into his lap. She went, halfheartedly. Or wholeheartedly. Maybe that was the problem.
“What?” He nuzzled her neck. “You’re not letting bombs and murders and FBI agents running around get you down, are you? Not Vanny Donald.”
She cracked a smile and slouched farther into him, so his arms were completely around her and she was nestled nice and snug. “It’s just you’re so fucking rich.”
“Forget what I said about the swearing tapering off.”
“No really. Private planes and estates and diamonds. This isn’t me.”
She felt him stiffen a little. “Could it be?” he asked.
She shook her head no, but before she could say anything, he hurried on, “Just forget about all these things. They’re part of my life, and they always have been, but they’re not me. I mean, I’m still a person.”
“Poor little rich boy,” she muttered with a smile.
“That didn’t come out right. What I mean is, don’t shut me out because—”
He stopped himself, undoubtedly knowing how it would sound.
“Don’t hate me because I’m beautiful?”
“Yeah, I guess it kind of sounds like that old, obnoxious commercial, doesn’t it? Can we just be together and not worry about anything else?”
“Except bombs and murders and FBI agents?”
He kissed her cheek. “Yeah. Except that stuff.”
By the time they landed in Houston and went to Transcoastal headquarters where the private eye was detaining Mick, it was afternoon. Agent Carter was flying down to Houston the next day, but she had begged Michael to have them talk to Mick alone first. So Mick had been helicoptered in from the Treasure Driller without being told why.
When Vanny walked into the conference room with Michael, Mick stood up, surprised. “What are you doing here?” he asked.
“What’s going on, Mick? What’s really going on?” She and Michael sat at the table and after a minute, Mick sat down again.
“I don’t know what you mean, Vanny. Is this about that bomb again, Mr. Reynolds? Because I told you, Vanny didn’t have nothing to do with that.”
“I’m well aware of that,” Michael said coolly.
Mick looked quickly from one face to another. “Your daddy know you’re here, Vanny?”
“None of your business,” Michael responded. “We’re here to talk about you, not Miss Donald.”
“What about me? What’s going on?”
“Did you plant the bomb, Mick?” she asked, willing him to tell the truth, whatever it was.
He looked at her as if she was crazy. “No! Of course I didn’t. What you got yourself mixed up in, girl? You let Mr. Reynolds have a little of that sugar you don’t let the boys on the rig have, Vanny? That what all his money gets?”
“I told you we’re not here to talk about Miss Donald.”
“Miss Donald,” Mick mocked. “It’s clear as day you probably been fucking her since the minute you got off that rig, maybe before. That it, Vanny? And now what? Now you’re trying to blame that bomb thing on me? Shit!” He stood up abruptly but the hulk of a private detective in the corner shot him a look that said he better sit back down again or he’d be making him sit back down.
She reached a hand out to Mick, trying to soothe him. “I know you’re mad. I know you’re scared. But if you have anything to do with what’s going on, you have to tell us now.”
“We know there was a large deposit of cash into your account. A wire transfer. What was that for?”
Mick turned beet red. “Says who?”
“Says your bank.” Michael was so cool and level she thought this must be what he was like in business. In fact, what he had seemed to be like when she had first picked him up, until she’d made him wild for her.
“Don’t I get no lawyer?”
“We’re not the police. Although that’ll be your next step of course. Because you’ve been a friend to Vanny and her father, I agreed to try to convince you to cooperate before the authorities got involved. But if you’re going to continue to deny this, then you’re wasting my time.”
“What’re you going to give me if I tell you?”
“A short jail sentence perhaps?”
“You’re filthy rich. Can’t you do no better than that?”
“What’re you bargaining with?” Michael asked.
The sly face Mick was showing was so unlike the capable worker and good friend she knew, she almost couldn’t process it. “What happened to you, Mick?”
He turned on her fiercely. “Your pa, that’s what. That’s what happened to me!”
“But you’re friends. Are you really responsible for the accident that put him in a wheelchair? I can’t believe that, Mick.”
“Believe it! I wished those pipes had killed him, Vanny. I wish I’d been man enough to do it myself long before now. You want to know why he never talks about your ma? Because he’s the one who killed her. That’s why.”
Vanny’s mouth dropped open. “What?”
“She was with me, you know. Your ma. Before she met Big Quinn. It wasn’t enough he was fucking everything that moved, he had to take my girl too.”
“Mick—”
“I thought she loved me too. But she was just a faithless whore.” He shot her a look of pure hatred. “Like mother like daug
hter I guess.”
“What do you mean he killed my mother?”
“Vanny—” Michael warned.
“No! I want to know!”
“I mean your mother was murdered. Shot to death while you were asleep in your cradle. They never arrested him, but I know in my gut who did it.”
“No!” She shot up out of her chair and started for him, grabbing his shirt and hauling him out of his chair. “You lying—”
Michael pulled her away. “Take her out of here,” he instructed the private eye. “I’ll talk to Mr. O’Malley alone.”
She stomped out without another look at the lying dirtbag piece of shit. She nursed a cup of coffee the detective brought her until Michael came out, maybe twenty minutes later.
Shoving off the wall where she’d been slouching, she said hotly, “He’s a fucking liar.”
Michael took her arm, leading her away to the elevator after telling the detective to call Lt. Rigsby at Houston P.D. to come over and pick up O’Malley since he’d confessed to planting the bomb. “He and the FBI can fight over jurisdiction later. For now, I want that man locked up. Tell Rigsby if he has any questions to call me. Otherwise, I’ll check in with him later.”
When the elevator doors closed on them, Michael took her in his arms and out of nowhere, she burst into tears. “He didn’t! I know Pops didn’t!”
He gathered her close. “Shhh.” Patting her back, he let her drench his shoulder with her tears and by the time she had calmed down, they were at the car. He opened the back door for her and she slid in, exhausted by her unexpected flood of emotion.
“To your apartment, sir?” the driver asked.
Michael looked at her. “You need to see your father.”
“He didn’t do it, Michael!”
“You have to hear that from him, Vanny.”
She nodded. “Where’s my goddamn truck again?”
He leaned over and gave the driver instructions to her father’s ranch house, which she had no idea how he knew.
“No, you don’t have to drive me.”
“I’m coming with you.”
“Michael—”
“I’m coming with you, Vanny. And that’s the end of it.” He pulled her close for the long drive and for once she didn’t mind taking orders from him.
Chapter Nine
When they pulled up to the ranch house, there was still a light in the front window, and the last thing she worried about was what her father would think of her pulling up in a chauffeured Cadillac with Michael Reynolds. Right now she had bigger things on her mind.
Her father had wheeled himself to the door by the time Vanny inserted her key and opened it. She leaned down to kiss him on the cheek. “Hi, Pops.”
“Vanny! What on earth is going on? Whose car is that?” He stopped short at the sight of Michael who held out his hand.
“Michael Reynolds, sir. It’s an honor to meet Vanny’s father.”
Pops looked from one to the other of them, but she couldn’t bother about that now. She crouched down next to him, her hands on the arms of the wheelchair, her head on his shoulder, and simply sobbed the story out. At some point, as she was telling him about Mick’s betrayal and what he’d said, her father had started stroking her hair, leaning down to kiss the top of her head.
When she raised her tear-laden eyes at him, she could see moisture in her father’s as well. And she had never once seen him cry.
“My poor little girlie,” he murmured.
“It’s not true, Pops, is it?”
“I would have cut my heart out before I would have hurt your mother. Same as I would before I would ever hurt you.”
She stared into his eyes, green like her own, and felt such a tremendous sense of comfort, of relief, of a lifetime of love and affection. “I know, Pops. I know.”
“Your mother did date Mick before we started seeing each other. And he was awful sweet on her. But we fell in love. Mick just had to accept that and he seemed like he never could. Wouldn’t even talk to me while she was alive. Once she had been killed—” His voice faltered.
“So that part was true? My mother was murdered?”
“I never wanted you to know, honey. I couldn’t bring myself to speak of it. When they called me on the rig, I about died myself.”
“The rig?” Michael asked.
“Yeah. I was in Alaska on a job. Had been for a few months even though Vanny here was no more than a tiny little thing. I shouldn’t have left your mother alone then. Just a young girl and a baby in an apartment in a not-so-great part of Houston. It was my fault in that sense.”
“No, Pops.”
“They said it was a robbery, but I don’t know. I never really believed that either.”
“Was O’Malley on the rig with you?”
“No. I don’t know where he was. We’d lost contact by that point. It was only after Vanessa’s, your mother’s, death that we became close again. Although I’m never going to speak to the son of a bitch now!”
“Well, Michael had to pull me off him, I was so mad.”
Michael smiled. “Not that I didn’t know you’d flatten him.” On a more serious note, he added, “Did they ever investigate O’Malley at the time?”
“No, I mean, I never, he wouldn’t…”
“The man I just spoke to in that room seemed almost insane with rage. He may have been able to hide it from you, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he had acted on it back then. With respect to the bomb, it was what we thought, Vanny. Someone called him and offered him money for the sabotage, first the valves and then the bomb. He added the little caveat of having your father and then you take the blame. As much as he defended you at the time, I can see now it was backhanded. Whatever he said, by the end of it on the rig I was definitely suspecting you.”
She colored at the memory of what else he was doing at the time.
“But O’Malley sincerely didn’t seem to know who had employed him for the sabotage and probably didn’t care. He was heavily in debt from gambling and in very real danger if he didn’t pay them back. He jumped at the chance. But unless they can trace the wire from that deposit, he can’t help us further in the current investigation. I do think Houston P.D. should question him about your mother’s murder though.”
She nodded. “The fucking bastard.”
“Vanny!” her father scolded and she grinned, standing up. “Excuse my daughter’s language, Mr. Reynolds. I’ve never been able to get through to her that a lady shouldn’t talk that way.”
“He’s used to it by now,” she said before she realized how that sounded. As if driving up in his fancy-ass car didn’t give her away anyway. She flushed, but Pops, God love him, didn’t comment. Maybe he thought she’d been through enough trauma to start grilling her about her romantic life. He kissed her hand, holding it. “So are you home or do you have to get back? To your job?”
She never thought she was much of a blusher. So what the hell was going on here? She could feel her face on fire with what was evidently embarrassment.
“Could I have a moment alone with your father, Vanny?”
“Why?” she snapped.
“Vanny,” her father said.
“Well, what am I supposed to do? In case you haven’t noticed, Michael, this house isn’t quite the same layout as one of your big-ass apartments. Am I supposed to go lock myself in my room?”
“Wait in the car for me.”
She frowned.
“Please.”
“Oh all right. I do have to go, Pops. But I’ll come back in a few days. I love you.” She hugged him, tight.
“I love you too, girlie.”
When Michael came back to the car a few minutes later, she said, “What did you say to him?”
“I told him he had a beautiful daughter.”
“What did you really say to him?”
He pulled her close. “It’s been a long day. Let’s go home, Vanny.”
God, how she loved the sound of that.
*
* * * *
Vik Pillay hung up the phone.
“So what did Agent Carter have to report?”
Vik had been an Interpol agent for most of his adult life. He’d seen gunrunners. He’d seen murderers. He’d seen terrorists. So not much scared him. But every man had his fears.
And right now he was looking at a truly scary sight. Samantha was stirring something on the stove in the kitchen of their flat. To say his wife couldn’t cook was a little like saying a tsunami couldn’t quench a dry mouth.
“What do you have there?” he asked cautiously.
“Oh it’s a recipe the cook at the Hamptons house gave me. It has duck in it.”
He wished his wife would start with something small. Like Spaghettios. If she tried to make duck, he was sure he’d be tasting feathers before the night was out.
Good thing he was so crazy in love with her. He wrapped his arms around her waist from the back while she stirred some orange sauce that smelled, incredibly enough, good.
“So come on, what’d he say?”
“Carter? Oh not much. The only Russian connection they could find was that Tiffany’s dead pimp was a Russian thug. Oh, and they picked up the guy who planted the bomb on the rig, but he had made it himself and he didn’t know who paid him to plant it. He was a worker on the rig. An older guy with gambling debts to pay. ”
“Did Vanny know him?”
“It sounds like it.”
“It’s just so strange, having two such different people involved. I mean, Tiffany plants one bomb and some old oil rig guy plants another. With nothing in common.”
“Nothing but your family. Or at least your brother Michael.”
“But it does make sense that an oil rigger may have been able to craft together a bomb whereas an empty-headed socialite wouldn’t.” She held up her spoon with the thought. “Whoever is behind this had to give her the bomb, which is why the devices were so different.”
“From what we now know about your Tiffany—”
“She wasn’t my Tiffany! I hated her.”
“Just a figure of speech.” He gently directed her hand back to its stirring. She tended to forget about things like that in her cooking. Funny she was such a genius about other things, computers and numbers, which was why he was always eager to talk a problem over with her. Samantha had a fabulous mind, not that he married her for her mind of course. One hand strayed down to her very fine ass. “But from what we know about Tiffany now, the prostitution, the possible murder in her past, she may have been blackmailed into her participation and the rigger just bribed into it.”
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