Bewitching: His Secret Agenda

by Carla Neggers

  The song slowed and Allie, cloth in hand, straightened from the table she was washing. She closed her eyes and lifted her arms over her head and swayed to the music. He caught his breath, his body tense.

  He was too old for this kind of torture. He slammed another chair down.

  Her eyes flew open and she frowned, but at least she stopped moving. “You okay?”

  “Dandy,” he muttered.

  “You sure?” She flipped off the radio. “You’ve been quiet ever since we closed.”

  “I’m trying to get this done,” he said pointedly, “so we can get to bed.” Not what he’d meant to say. “So we can get home,” he amended. “It’s been a long day.”

  Made even longer thanks to Nolan’s text message a few hours ago. He hadn’t had any luck tracking down Sarah Lambert yet.

  “Is everything okay with your mom?” Allie asked.

  “What?”

  “I couldn’t help but overhear you talking with her,” she said. “It was kind of late for her to be calling, and you’ve been so grumpy—”

  “I am not grumpy,” he snapped. She made him sound like a cartoon bear or something.

  “I thought...maybe something had happened.”

  “I said everything’s fine.”

  “Sorry I asked,” Allie said going back to wiping off tables, her movements jerky.

  Dean sighed. He’d hoped Nolan would have found Sarah by now and gotten the evidence they required to confront Allie about helping Lynne and Jon escape Miles Addison. Dean needed a way to back her into a corner so she’d be forced to tell him the truth. He needed proof.

  Without it, he’d be revealing his hand too soon. And he’d lose any headway he’d made in getting Allie to trust him, without anything to show for it.

  Dean finished setting the chairs up and went to get the broom.

  “Let’s leave the floor until tomorrow,” Allie said as she stepped behind the bar and washed her hands.

  “You sure?”

  “You’re right, it’s been a long day.” She opened a heart-shaped box of chocolates, nibbling her lower lip as she chose one. She bit into it, her eyes closing in pleasure.

  This job couldn’t be over soon enough.

  “Want some?” she asked, and damn if her voice didn’t sound husky and alluring.

  “No, thanks.” When she shrugged and chose another chocolate, a growl rose in his throat. “You about ready to go?”

  She looked up, no doubt startled at his gruff tone. “Uh...sure.” She put the lid back on the chocolates and stacked it with the other two boxes before picking up a pen. “Let me get the cards off of these flowers first.”

  “You’re not going to take them home?”

  “Just the ones from my dad,” she said, pointing to a bouquet of yellow roses. She wrote something on the card from one of the three vases of long-stemmed red roses. “The other ones I’ll drop off at the hospital tomorrow.”

  “So, all those poor saps who sent you flowers wasted their time and money?”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Well, I was going to sleep with them all—one at a time, of course—as a thank-you for them breaking out their credit cards,” she said coolly. “Considering I’ve met most of them only once or twice, that seems beyond generous on my part. But since that would take up my next two months of Saturdays, I decided to draw a name to see which lucky guy got me.”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “On second thought,” she said, “I think I’ll stay a little while longer. Don’t wait for me. I can find my car by myself.”

  And with that, she lowered her head and gave all her attention to a second florist card.

  In the kitchen, he got his coat and carried it back out. She didn’t look up when he stood in front of her, separated by the bar.

  “I didn’t get you flowers,” he said, as if challenging her to make a big deal of it.

  She slowly lifted her head and tucked her hair behind her ear. “I didn’t expect you to.”

  He reached into his pocket and tossed a plastic grocery bag on top of the card she was writing on. “That’s for you.”

  She nudged the bag with the tip of her pen. “What is it?”

  “Just open it.”

  She unfolded the bag and attempted to smooth out the wrinkles before she gingerly complied. It took all he had not to rip it away from her and dump out the contents. She probably took forever to unwrap her Christmas gifts, too.

  She pulled out a small blue bag of trail mix and stared at him.

  He scratched the back of his neck. “It has dried cranberries in it, and since you’re always drinking cranberry juice, I thought you’d like it.”

  “I...I do. Thank you.”

  Then she took out the pink, heart-shaped stuffed mouse.

  He twisted his coat in his hands. “I thought maybe Persephone might like it,” he said defiantly.

  He felt like a fool standing there, a blush heating his neck even as he hoped she liked a bunch of stupid things he’d picked up at the convenience store.

  “Dean,” she asked, running a finger over the mouse’s ears, “what are these? Why are you giving them to me?” Her lips twitched. “Are these valentine gifts?”

  “It’s not Valentine’s Day anymore.”

  “So, you don’t want me to be your valentine?”

  He shoved a hand through his hair. “What are we, ten years old?”

  “Well, in that case, thank you for the gifts—which you gave me for no particular reason.” She put them back in the plastic bag and came around the bar. “But for the record, if you had sent flowers, I’d have taken them home with me.”

  He cleared his throat. “Give me your keys. I’ll warm your car while you finish up.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I’m going out to start my truck anyway—”

  “No. Thank you for the gifts.” She left the room and came back almost immediately with her keys, but instead of handing them over, she clasped them in her hand. “Dean, why did your mother call you tonight?”

  “Does she need a reason to call me?”

  “So, she called to wish you a Happy Valentine’s Day?” Too bad his evasive maneuvers didn’t fool Allie.

  He met her eyes and knew she suspected the real reason for that phone call. How could she know him so well? And why did the thought scare him so much?

  “She called to thank me for the flowers I sent her. And,” he admitted, “to tell me that Rene loved the carnations and balloons I sent her.”

  “Rene?”

  “My niece.”

  Allie smiled. “You sent your niece flowers?” she asked, as if he’d single-handedly stopped global warming. “Did you talk to your brother? If you want to go down to Dallas, I’m sure we could figure a way to give you a couple of days off.”

  “I didn’t talk to Ryan or Jolene, and I don’t think any of us are ready for me to pop up on their doorstep.” Allie looked so disappointed Dean almost grinned. She sure was a sweetheart. “I’m taking things one step at a time.”

  Steps he should’ve taken years ago, he knew. Steps he hadn’t been able to take until he’d opened up to Allie about the loss of his son. That, combined with witnessing Robin Hawley’s need for forgiveness from her daughter, made Dean realize he had to stop being a coward and make amends.

  She nodded. “I know it wasn’t easy—”

  “All I did was call up a florist and order some flowers. Don’t make more of this than it is.”

  “I’ll make more of it if I want to. Just like I’ll tell you I’m proud of you if I want to.” Before he could evade her, she closed the distance between them, stretched up on her toes and kissed him, a soft, warm press of her lips against his. “You’re one of the good guys, Dean.”

 
She couldn’t be more wrong.

  “Your keys?” he asked.

  “Oh. Sure. Sorry.” She dropped them into his open palm, confusion on her face. “I’ll just be a few more minutes.”

  He nodded and slipped on his coat. Once outside, he tilted his head back and inhaled deeply, the cold air burning his lungs. He needed to stop straddling the fence with Allie. He needed to tell her what he was really doing there.

  He just hoped like hell she’d forgive him.

  Maybe she’d understand. After all, he wanted to reunite Lynne and Jon Addison with Robin, not hurt anyone.

  Not that it mattered. He couldn’t keep this up. He couldn’t keep lying to her.

  He turned back to the door, but the sound of crunching snow to his left made him stop. He listened, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end. One heartbeat. Two. When he didn’t hear anything else, he began to push the door open. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a shadow. He turned, but it was too late. Pain exploded in the side of his head and he fell face-first into the snow.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  ALLIE TUCKED THE florist cards in her purse. Even though she didn’t want the flowers—or any of the guys who’d sent them—she’d still acknowledge the gifts from the men she personally knew. Of course, she’d already thanked the two guys who’d delivered their own gifts. And let them know, as politely as possible, she wasn’t interested. Despite what Dean thought about her flirting, she had a strict policy about not leading men on.

  She’d keep the three boxes of chocolates, though.

  She put her coat on and pulled her hair out from under the collar before picking up the flowers from her dad.

  She heard the door open. “Just in time.” She turned and almost dropped her flowers. “Richie? What are you—”

  “You weren’t supposed to be here.” Her former assistant slammed the door shut.

  Her stomach pitched. His hair was greasy, his coat open to reveal he had on the same clothes he’d worn the last time she’d seen him. And from the wrinkles and stains, it was clear he hadn’t washed them—or himself—since then.

  “It’s after four,” he said, as if she had no right to be in her own bar. “Why are you still here?”

  She smiled shakily, trying not to let him see how uneasy she felt. “Dillon and Nina stopped by,” she explained slowly. “They’d taken the kids to a movie and then went out to dinner, so they didn’t get here until late. We didn’t start cleaning until almost three.” She casually put the flowers down and walked out from behind the bar. “I’m so glad you came back....”

  It wasn’t until she was a few feet away from him that she noticed his dilated pupils. The sweat beaded on his upper lip. The rank scent of body odor.

  And the gun held loosely at his side.

  The blood drained from her face. “Wha-what are you doing with that?” Her eyes widened and nausea churned her stomach. She stepped toward the door. “Where’s Dean?”

  “Don’t move!” Richie lifted the gun, pointing it at her chest, his hand shaking. “He wasn’t supposed to be here, either.”

  She held her arms out at her sides. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

  Which was a really ridiculous thing to say, since she wasn’t the one with the gun.

  And the way he was waving it around didn’t bode well for her. He might accidentally shoot her.... Because surely he wouldn’t shoot her on purpose.

  The Richie she knew, the Richie she’d shared the secret to her roux sauce with, who’d dressed up as Fred Flintstone to her Wilma last Halloween, would never hurt her.

  But this wasn’t that man, was it? This Richie was strung out, highly agitated and worse, unpredictable. The old Richie was still in there, though. He had to be. All she had to do was get through to him.

  “Where’s Dean?” she asked again, keeping her voice even. She inched toward the door. “Is he all right?”

  Richie wiped the back of his hand over his forehead. “I didn’t want to hurt him. I didn’t mean for anyone to get hurt.”

  Her lungs constricted with fear. Oh, God. No. “Where is he?”

  “Outside. By the door.”

  Dean had to be all right. If Richie had fired his gun—had shot Dean—she would’ve heard the discharge. “I need to check on him.”

  “You can’t leave,” he said, pointing the gun at her head. “You can’t go to the cops.”

  She swallowed, but the lump in her throat remained. “I’m not leaving. I promise. I’m just going to check on Dean. That’s all. Please,” she begged. “Let me open the door.”

  He nodded and slowly lowered the gun, but he didn’t put it away. She took a deep breath and prayed she wouldn’t find Dean’s lifeless body in the parking lot.

  Wiping her sweating palms down the front of her jeans, she opened the door. Light spilled out, illuminating Dean’s crumpled figure on the sidewalk.

  She gasped and raced outside, sliding in her high-heeled boots. Falling to her knees beside him, she frantically felt the side of his neck for a pulse. His skin was cold, his lips tinged blue, but his heartbeat was steady. Thank you, God.

  “Is he...dead?” Richie asked from the doorway.

  “He’s breathing.” She gently brushed his hair back. Dots of blood stained the snow from the nasty cut on his temple. He hadn’t lost much blood, but he had what promised to become a sizable, and from the looks of it, painful lump.

  Dean’s eyelids fluttered and he groaned.

  “What’s he doing?” Richie asked, panicked.

  She held Dean’s hands, trying to warm them with her own. “Dean? Can you hear me?”

  He blinked slowly several times, finally bringing his eyes into focus. She sat back, relieved.

  “You all right?” he asked in a low whisper.

  Her laugh sounded suspiciously close to a sob. “I’m fine,” she said. “You’re the one lying in the snow with a head wound.”

  He raised his hand and gingerly felt the area around the bump. Grimaced. “Just a scratch,” he mumbled.

  She braced her arm around his shoulder and helped him sit up. “Any dizziness?”

  “Nah.” But he spoke through gritted teeth as if fighting back a rush of pain.

  “What are you doing?” Richie asked.

  She didn’t even look at him. “I’m helping him get up.”

  “No. You’ve seen he’s all right, just leave him.”

  She bit back the urge to snap at him. “We can’t leave him out here in the cold,” she said, proud of how rational she sounded. As if she was held at gunpoint every day by someone she used to consider a friend. “He’s hurt. He could die.”

  She could’ve sworn she saw Dean roll his eyes before he winced. Okay, so he probably wouldn’t die, but Richie didn’t seem to know that.

  Richie was now shivering violently—either from drugs or the cold or both. “F-f-fine. But don’t t-t-try to run.”

  “Can you stand?” she asked Dean.

  “Yeah.”

  She put his arm around her shoulder, shifted onto her heels and helped him get to his feet. Staggering under his weight, she somehow managed to keep her balance. He leaned heavily on her as they shuffled inside. Richie walked backward, kept his gun trained on them. As soon as they were in, he shut and locked the door.

  “He can sit over there,” the young man said, gesturing toward the far corner of the room. The corner farthest away from any of the exits.

  Seemed Richie wasn’t all that far gone.

  “Can you stand on your own for a minute?” Allie asked when they reached the table.

  Dean’s face was pale, etched with pain. He nodded, but then hissed out a breath as he shifted, a movement that must’ve hurt like hell. She let go of him and quickly set a chair down, then helped him sink into i
t.

  “That’s good,” Richie called from the other side of the pool table. “Now...come over here.”

  Terrified, she forced herself to straighten. She had to let him think he was in control, find a way to talk him down before he did something he’d regret.

  She had to believe he wouldn’t hurt her or Dean more than he already had.

  She took a step, but Dean seized her wrist, his grip surprisingly strong. Startled, she met his eyes.

  “Wait for my cue,” he said almost soundlessly.

  Her mind blanked. What was he saying? What did he mean?

  “No talking!” Richie shrieked.

  She spun back around, her mouth bone-dry. Richie was obviously close to the breaking point. Then the realization hit her and her knees threatened to buckle—Dean wasn’t as hurt as he’d made them believe. Make that he wasn’t as hurt as he wanted Richie to believe.

  “He’s thirsty,” Allie lied, cursing herself when her voice cracked. “Can I get him some water?”

  Richie viciously scratched his neck with his free hand. “No. Just—just get away from him. Come over here.”

  She hesitated, glanced back at Dean and nodded slightly to let him know she’d heard him before.

  “Now!”

  Her heart thumping madly, she had to walk away from Dean. Toward Richie.

  Everything would be okay. They’d get out of this. All she had to do was keep control of the situation so that no one got hurt.

  And if she could, help Richie before it was too late.

  “Get the key to the cash register,” he told her.

  “You...you’re going to rob me?” Even though she knew that had been his intention, hearing his demand still came as a shock. “Do you know what the penalty is for armed robbery? At least ten years in a state prison.”

  She needed to stop him.

  He looked at her as if she’d lost her mind. A distinct possibility, considering she was arguing with a man pointing a gun at her.

  “Just get the key!” he shouted, spittle flying from his lips, his face red.

  Her legs shaking, she went behind the bar, knelt down and pulled the key from the magnet she kept under the sink. Before she stood, she said a quick prayer that whatever Dean was planning, he’d make his move soon.