Nanny

by Christina Skye

  “Okay, I just made a small hole at one edge,” Summer said quietly. “How about telling me how you know Senator Winslow.”

  There was no noise or movement around them, and Gabe decided distraction was a good idea, considering the current position of her bound hands. “My father and Senator Winslow’s father met in the army. My dad saved his life a couple of times, and Randall Winslow never forgot. Afterward, Randall set my parents up on their first fifty acres.” Gabe shifted restlessly. “Can we stop talking now?”

  “No. Are you married?”

  “Not now.”

  Summer’s hands stopped moving. “But . . . you were?”

  “A long time ago.” Gabe sifted through painful memories. “We met in high school and got married that same summer. We had a daughter by Christmas.” It hurt to remember, even now. He was sure it always would.

  “And?”

  “And it only took a shit-for-brains drunk driver twenty seconds to kill them both.” Gabe glared into the darkness, assaulted by bitter memories. “One moment they were laughing in the snow and the next they were caught in a ball of burning metal when the driver jumped the curb.”

  He heard Summer’s breath catch. “I’m so sorry, Gabe. I—didn’t know.”

  “Not many people do. Rosalita—well, she was full of joy and wonder, the hardest worker I ever met. I was young and reckless, but I loved her, and our baby girl was the most beautiful thing a man could ever hope to see. Both of them always loved the snow. Funny, I forgot that until now.” Frowning, he pulled his thoughts back from images of dark eyes and soft laughter. “Afterward, I got in my car and started driving, with no particular plan. Two weeks later I ended up in a beachfront bar in Mexico, stone drunk and robbed blind.” After a moment, Gabe went on. “That night Tate Winslow’s dad came down and dusted me off, literally and figuratively. Three days later I was in basic training. If he hadn’t tracked me down at that bar, I’m not sure where I’d be now.”

  “Randall Winslow sounds like an interesting man.”

  Gabe laughed softly. “Yeah, he was that, all right. The man just kept coming, working at you until you saw his way of thinking. He and Amanda, Tate’s mother, always believed in getting involved and staying involved. When Tate needed my help, there was no way I could refuse.”

  “Because it was personal.” In the cramped space, Summer dug her hands against his belt. “Sorry if this hurts.”

  “Do what needs to be done. Forget about me.” Without warning, light burned into Gabe’s eyes. As he’d guessed, they were inside the extended cab of a battered pickup truck, and two people were walking toward the truck.

  The woman in front was the receptionist who’d argued with them at the clinic. The man beside her had been running cable.

  “Company,” Gabe whispered. “Stay down.”

  “Almost free,” she said breathlessly.

  As the uniformed man headed for the driver’s side door of the truck, light struck the revolver holstered beneath his shoulder. “Do it fast,” Gabe whispered. “Our options may be starting to dwindle.”

  chapter 35

  Answer your damn phone, Gabe.”

  Muttering, Izzy broke off his latest attempt to rouse either Summer or Gabe. When his pager was equally unsuccessful, he opened the big metal case on the car seat beside him and powered up his GPS, praying they still had their phones.

  He’d watched them enter the clinic’s main reception building, then emerge with a woman in a white uniform. From his vantage point in the loading area behind the lab, Izzy had seen them enter the lab building with Underhill. Ten minutes later they still hadn’t reappeared, and a guard had come by, politely but firmly telling Izzy to return to the main parking area at the clinic entrance. Though he’d taken his time, Izzy had complied.

  At twenty minutes, Izzy knew things had gone south, because Gabe hadn’t answered his cell phone at the prearranged time. When he’d checked with the receptionist, he was told that Mr. and Mrs. Walker had taken a taxi back to their hotel.

  Of course, they hadn’t.

  Now with his laptop open, Izzy tried to locate Gabe’s phone. A digital map appeared on-screen, with an arrow flickering inside the lab. So Gabe was still inside.

  Izzy sat back slowly. Or was he?

  He opened a new screen on his computer, taking a different tack. Senator Winslow had made it clear that the three of them would be on their own here in Mexico. There would be no consular backup, no cavalry charging in with guns blazing.

  Izzy’s face hardened.

  Not that it mattered. He made a damned good cavalry regiment all by himself.

  Summer’s hands were on fire, her skin abraded and raw up to her wrists. Though she was bleeding, she kept twisting feverishly, trying to free the last remaining piece of tape. She felt the truck moving while the motor throbbed noisily beneath them, coughing occasionally.

  “How are your hands?” Gabe said, his mouth near her ear.

  “I felt another piece of tape break,” she whispered back. “My hands are slippery, which should help.”

  “Slippery from what?”

  “Sweat.” And blood, Summer didn’t say. She bit back a curse as another layer of skin tore free.

  A bump sent them flying a foot into the air, then slammed them back down.

  “As soon as I can, I’m going for the driver,” he whispered.

  “How?”

  The truck backfired, swerving hard. Tree branches scraped the metal body like clawing fingers.

  Gabe didn’t answer. Silently, Summer reached up to check her door, but the latch was frozen, rusted all the way through.

  No chance of getting out that way.

  She felt Gabe shift, then pull his hands apart, slamming her on the chin in the process. “How’d you do that?” she whispered, her voice barely audible above the hammer of the old motor.

  “I found a rusted nail on the floor, caught in an old piece of rope. Thank God for garbage.” Gabe dug into his boot, then pressed a knife against her fingers. “Use this. I’m going for the driver.”

  Summer gripped the knife awkwardly between her knees. She was still bleeding and the knife slipped, cutting her thumb. Ignoring the pain, she went to work while Gabe snaked his arm around the driver’s throat, squeezing hard.

  The driver yelled Spanish curses and the truck twisted. Summer heard a hissing noise, and Gabe’s body went tense as he took a burst of pepper spray directly in the face, but even then he didn’t let go of the driver’s throat. She shoved the knife down again, and the tape on her hands broke free. Gabe was struggling blindly with their frenzied driver. She lunged over the seat, pulled up the driver’s door latch, and pushed open the door. Gritting her teeth, Summer pulled the man sideways, and with a brutal shove from Gabe that knocked the revolver to the seat, they pushed the driver outside.

  He hit the road with a cloud of dust and an angry yell.

  As the truck kept moving, Summer saw that Underhill was slumped down on the passenger seat, still in his rumpled suit. The driver’s revolver was on the seat next to him. Gabe was still half-blinded by the pepper spray, and the truck was fishtailing wildly as they twisted along a narrow mountain road.

  Summer leaned over the seat, grabbing the wheel. “I doubt we’ll see the driver again anytime soon,” she rasped.

  “Fine by me.”

  Summer managed to climb into the driver’s seat without letting go of the steering wheel. Underhill gasped out a tortured breath and began to struggle, his arms striking her in the head.

  Summer tried to dodge Underhill’s flailing arms. “Hold him. He’s waking up.”

  Gabe managed to grip the scientist from behind and hold him steady. “Terence, can you hear me?”

  The scientist gasped an answer, and the next swerve pitched him hard against Gabe’s arm.

  “Blood on the Armani. I hate it when that happens.” Gabe shifted to find a better grip while the scientist twisted, oblivious. “Terence, hang in there, pal.”

 
; Summer tried to decipher Underhill’s guttural ranting. “What’s he saying?”

  “Can’t tell. Something about a panda?”

  Summer saw a green van racing through the dirt behind them. One of the men in the front seat looked like the driver she had tossed out of the truck minutes before.

  The road was dangerously narrow now, with almost no room to maneuver, but the van kept coming, and slammed hard against her back fender.

  Summer veered to the left, racing along the very edge of the road, fighting to hold the truck steady with the van right behind her, ramming her bumper.

  Below her she saw a flash of silver from the ocean, and then the road twisted sharply. To the north, weathered stucco houses dotted the hillside, and after a steep descent the road split in two.

  The van hammered them again. Summer’s head snapped backward and she nearly lost control of the truck. Dust swirled through the window and she coughed hard, spit out a mouthful of grit, then drove the accelerator back to the floor. “Can you see yet?” she shouted to Gabe.

  “Still blurred as hell.”

  “The driver’s gun is on the seat.”

  Underhill was muttering brokenly, but Summer couldn’t look away from the road.

  Something struck the rear window, cracking the glass.

  “We’re taking fire here. Give it some juice.”

  Trying to ignore the van riding her bumper and the sheer drop to her left, Summer floored the accelerator again while Gabe knocked a hole in the cab’s rear window.

  Squinting, he squeezed off four shots and then cursed. “You need to hold us straight! I’m guessing here already.”

  Summer gritted her teeth. “In case you hadn’t noticed, this road is bumpy as hell.”

  “I noticed, trust me.”

  A bullet cracked against the roof.

  “There’s a split in the road ahead.” Summer measured distances and calculated speed. “Get ready, because I’m turning hard.”

  “Hold on.” Gabe’s first shot shattered the van’s windshield, and their pursuers slowed abruptly. As Summer barreled into the turn, a mother and three children walked onto the road, directly in front of the truck. Breathing a silent prayer, Summer jammed the brakes hard and spun the truck ninety degrees. With dust flying wildly, they careened into a skid.

  She flipped on the wipers, half-blinded, watching the van roar past her with no break in speed. Amid a stream of curses, the driver swerved into a rock, and the van soared into the air, crash-landing against a huge cottonwood tree.

  Before Summer had time for relief, the road twisted sharply to the right and she saw a cement overhang twenty feet away, part of a new irrigation canal. They were headed directly toward the unfinished edge.

  Summer stared grimly down the hill, her options fading. “Brace yourself, because this is going to hurt like hell,” she shouted.

  Then there was nothing but brown, rocky soil stretching out below her.

  chapter 36

  Amanda Winslow closed the trunk of her old silver Mercedes and smiled at Cara gamely. “I told Tate to prepare to be supplanted.” She held up a dozen bags with bright bows and ribbons. “We have serious work to do, my love. Not that you aren’t gorgeous, but a bride can always use a little extra glow for her big day.”

  Cara put her arm around Sophy, who was staring wide-eyed at Tate’s mother. “What a lovely idea. But you really shouldn’t have gone to all this trouble, Amanda.”

  The slim, white-haired woman laughed in delight. “The only trouble was negotiating that dirt road to get here. The day spa treatments become trouble is the day I draw my last breath. Do you know, Tate and his brother used to tease me that I should open my own spa since I was already an expert.” Her head tilted. “And I actually considered it. I even signed a contract on a lovely little property in Georgetown near Tate’s old law office.” She winked at Sophy. “Thank God, I came to my senses in time.”

  “What happened?” Sophy demanded, in awe of her future grandmother.

  “I realized that I would have been appalling as a masseuse, my dear, and even worse as a business manager.” Shaking her head, Amanda juggled two bags and took her son’s arm. “Are the reporters leaving you alone here?”

  “So far we’ve managed to fly below their radar. I’ve promised Audra a fishing expedition today.” He grinned at his mother. “Don’t suppose you’d want to give up exfoliation for standing waist-high in frigid water?”

  “Blasphemy, my love.” Amanda handed one of her bags to Cara. “I think we should start with the algae rinse. After that comes the loofah scrub and the warm mud wrap. When I’m done, you’ll look like a teenager—not that you aren’t close to being thirteen already, my sweet.”

  Sophy giggled. “What about me? Can you make me look older, Grandma?”

  “Are you staying with us, Sophy? If so, I think you’ll fall in love with my strawberry mousse face cream. I even brought a pair of little red spa slippers, just for you.”

  Beaming, Sophy took a skipping step. “Audra will be soooo jealous.”

  “Then we won’t tell her, will we?” Amanda’s voice was low and conspiratorial.

  Sophy hesitated. “Grandma Amanda, what’s blas—blasma—”

  “Blasphemy. That, my love, is an act of irreverence toward something sacred.”

  “Will I know a lot of big words like that when I grow up?”

  “When you grow up, you will walk on Mars,” Amanda Winslow said gravely. “You will own a huge international corporation and rule it with an iron hand. Who knows, you might even decide to become president.” As they crossed the porch, she glanced across at Tate, who was walking beside Cara. “Forgive me for arriving unannounced, but when Bud mentioned you were coming, I couldn’t resist. Now, is there anything I can do to help you two? Any calls to return, food to order, reporters to badger?”

  “We’re all set,” Cara said. “All you need to do while you’re here is relax.”

  “Relaxation always bored me. Let’s see, I packed all kinds of good things for lunch.” Amanda frowned at Cara. “Audra was looking pale when I saw her last. Has she been sick?”

  Cara swallowed. “She’s been under some stress lately.”

  “You should help her with that, darling. Let’s both try.” Amanda turned to her son and waved airily. “Off with you, Tate. Go find your frigid stream and cast away. We women have serious work to do.”

  “Anyone for lemonade? It’s my special recipe, brought all the way from San Francisco, made with lemons, blood oranges, and all the pulp you can squeeze in.” Amanda Winslow poured three glasses and handed one to Cara, then placed the iced pitcher on a lacquer tray. “Sophy, be a love and bring me the little suitcase from the front seat of my car. I must have left all my brushes in there. You can have your lemonade when you return.”

  “Okay.” The little girl stopped in the doorway and looked back. Sunlight was spilling through the big window in the upstairs bedroom, and her mother was sitting in a chair, her legs curled, looking very happy.

  I want her to look like that all the time, Sophy thought. Maybe if I’m very good, I can make that happen.

  Grandma Amanda was refilling her mother’s glass as Sophy skipped down the stairs, thinking about red spa slippers and strawberry mousse. She dawdled crossing the front porch, enjoying the sun on her shoulders and the stillness all around her at the ranch.

  It was good to feel safe.

  When she walked back with her grandmother’s little case, she kicked up dust with her sneakers, just for the fun of seeing the brown clouds dance around her. Then she heard her mother’s voice carried through the open windows above the porch, and she smiled.

  At the front door she saw something on the floor behind the big leather chair her Grandma Amanda liked best, and for a frightening moment Sophy thought it was her diary, the one she never showed anyone. How had it fallen out of her knapsack?

  When she remembered she had left her diary at home, locked in her desk drawer, Sophy walked cl
oser and saw a big blue envelope, the kind that came from foreign countries. Since she collected foreign stamps, Sophy knew this stamp was in Spanish and came from Mexico.

  It must have fallen when they came in, Sophy thought. The letter from Mexico probably belonged to her Grandma Amanda, who got letters from all over the world for her international charities. Sophy bent down and picked up the colored envelope.

  As her fingers touched the paper, she swallowed hard. She couldn’t say why, but something about the envelope felt strange.

  “Amanda, I don’t understand.”

  “No? I should think it was entirely clear.” Amanda Winslow put down her Prada purse on the big, rustic dresser and turned. “I can’t allow you to destroy my son’s future, even if you’re too selfish to see that’s exactly what you’re doing.”

  “Why are you saying this? What makes you think—” Cara blinked, rubbing her face. Suddenly she clutched her stomach.

  “Exactly, my dear.” Tate’s mother smiled faintly. “I know all about your sordid visit to that little clinic in Mexico. Los Reyes, wasn’t it?”

  “But when . . . how did you find out?”

  Amanda lifted her shoulders in an elegant shrug. “Really, Cara, do you think I’d let him marry just anyone? I had you investigated, of course, just as I had his other women investigated. You were the best candidate for Tate, I have to admit, and after the first date I knew he was serious about you. He wanted marriage and a family, something he’d never considered with any of the others.” Her lips pursed. “I sent a man to do some research in California. When that was done, I sent a different man to your old law school and another to that apartment you had in college. Well, guess what? Your old landlady remembered that you’d been sick one term and had to drop out of school. She also said you’d made a trip to Mexico with your sister.” Amanda stared coldly at Cara. “The next part wasn’t so easy. You covered yourself well, as any good lawyer would.” Tate’s mother moved around the bed, watching Cara closely. “Then I had a bit of luck, and the last part of the puzzle fell right into my lap, so to speak.” She smiled. “Richard Costello.”