THE TEMPTATION OF SEAN MCNEILL

by Virginia Kantra

  "I can't risk it," she whispered.

  I can't risk you, her heart cried. There were some gambles she still wasn't prepared to take.

  * * *

  Sean watched as Rachel backed her mother's Buick carefully down the driveway, her one-way radio clipped to the sun visor, the sack of phony money with the transmitter inside on the seat beside her. Like an anxious parent seeing his only child off to school, he'd made sure she had everything she needed.

  Except him.

  He frowned as her car slid into the dappled sunshine and down the street. She shouldn't have to face Bilotti alone. Sean didn't care that Gowan had told him to keep his nose out. It didn't matter that Rachel herself wanted him to stay away. He couldn't shake the feeling that he should have gone with her.

  Illogical, his brother Con would argue, but Sean had never let logic stand in his way. Patrick would expect him to obey orders. But Sean had always broken the rules.

  And he'd never been any damn good at walking away from a fight.

  He stomped toward his truck. He should know better. Hell, he did know better. The last time he'd taken on an unwilling woman's troubles, he'd ended up with his heart broken and egg on his face.

  Calling himself six kinds of chump, he gunned the engine and headed for the high school.

  * * *

  Rachel squinted as she drove. The sun glared through the windshield. Above the arching trees, the sky was bright with promise. There was nothing menacing about the one-story houses along the road with their rural mailboxes and yard art, concrete deer and feeding geese. There was nothing creepy in the quiet fields, only cows and crows and yellowing tobacco.

  When the phone chirped on the seat beside her, she jumped as if an unruly senior had pulled the fire alarm in the middle of end-of-grade testing. Foolish. The children were safe at the MacNeills'. Sean—she squashed her yearning for his solid, reassuring presence—must be back in his workshop by now, and she was on her way to getting the Bilottis out of her life forever. It was stupid to panic just because Lee Gowan was calling to check on her.

  She dug for the phone with one hand, swerving slightly to avoid some pancaked roadkill by the centerline. "Hello?"

  "Do you have the money with you?"

  Panic leaped into her throat and blocked her breathing. She knew that voice. Oh, God, she knew it. It didn't belong to Lee Gowan.

  "Do you hear me?" Carmine Bilotti asked.

  She moistened her lips. Her eyes sought out the radio hidden above the sun visor. She could hear him, yes. But no one else did. "I can hear you."

  "So, do you have it or not?"

  The money. "Yes."

  "Good. Turn left on Powell Road

  ."

  A turn would take her away from the high school. Away from the agreed-upon drop and the watching, waiting agents. "Why?"

  "You arguing with me, Mrs. Fuller?"

  "No."

  Do whatever he tells you, Gowan had instructed her. Hands shaking, she turned left across an empty lane as slowly and cautiously as the little old lady she hoped she lived to be. We'll be there to help. But now the agent's assurances were no help at all, because every yard she drove took her farther out of range.

  * * *

  He was only following her as far as Old Graham Road, Sean told himself. Less than a mile from the school. They'd pass whoever the FBI had posted at the intersection, and then he'd get his shiny, red, conspicuous butt off the road.

  The sun glinted off the roof of Myra Jordan's Buick as it climbed the hill ahead of him. Rachel drove like a kid with her first license, Sean noted with sharp empathy, slowing cautiously as she approached the intersection, signaling her turn. He slowed, too. He didn't want her to see him and worry.

  Signaling her turn?

  Why was she turning? Powell Road

  led out of town toward old farms and new construction. Rachel had no business going out that way. Unless the drop had been changed, and she'd decided to keep it from him.

  Sean's jaw tightened. She hadn't told him. It pricked his pride. She didn't trust him even that much. But more than his pride was hurting. Rachel's deception bruised his heart. Hadn't she said she had faith in his judgment? Hadn't she let him love her with all that was in him? How could she do that and then lie to him?

  Unless she hadn't lied.

  Fear blew cold on the back of his neck. Unless something had gone wrong.

  Damn, damn, damn. His fingers drummed the wheel. He could push on to Old Graham Road

  and hope the sight of his bright red truck provoked Gowan's men into revealing themselves and demanding an explanation. Or he could turn, trail Rachel to wherever she was going and hope like hell his tag-along presence didn't put her in even more danger.

  He reached the intersection. Rachel's car was nowhere in sight.

  He turned left onto Powell Road

  .

  Sweet Mother in Heaven, pray for us.

  * * *

  Clutching the wheel, Rachel steered the car through another swooping curve. Her neck ached from clamping the phone. As she turned, it nearly slithered from beneath her jaw. She grabbed at it while the car drifted from the double yellow line to the narrow shoulder.

  "You still there?" Carmine Bilotti demanded.

  "I'm here," she muttered.

  She was not going to run her car off the road. She would survive. She would not deprive her fatherless children of their mother, too.

  At least, she hoped not.

  "You over the bridge yet?"

  What bridge? "No."

  "I want you to keep talking," Carmine said. "I want to know you're on the line."

  So she wouldn't be able to hang up the phone. Her neck was breaking, and she couldn't call Gowan for instructions or Sean for support. She sucked on her fear like a nickel in her mouth, flat and metallic-tasting. "What if we get out of my calling area?"

  "You're not going that far."

  "Well, what if we get cut off?"

  "You better hope we don't. I know where your children are, Mrs. Fuller."

  Her breath caught. Well, that squelched any thought she had of turning back. Was Frank ahead somewhere waiting for her? Or behind her waiting for Carmine's instructions? She clung to the memory of Sean's words. They'll be safe at Patrick's. He's a former marine. My sister-in-law's a doctor.

  Oh, God, what if they needed a doctor?

  She bit the inside of her lip, hard. Hysterics wouldn't help. She needed to think. She needed to let Gowan know what had happened. She needed … the radio.

  The road echoed beneath her tires.

  She cleared her throat. "I just went over the bridge on Powell Road

  ," she said tentatively to the visor above her head. Would Gowan follow her directions? "Where am I going?"

  "No names," Carmine warned her. "I'll let you know when you get there."

  "How much farther?" she pressed, anxious for any clue that would help Gowan track her down. Would he come right after her? Or wait until she stopped moving?

  "I'll tell you. You tell me when you get to the, uh, the water tower thing." Even through the distorted connection, Rachel could hear his disgust. "Jeez, what directions. What did you want to move to Dogpatch for?"

  She drove.

  "Talk to me," Carmine reminded her sharply. Anger licked at her. She welcomed it, used it. "I moved to get away from you. Will Frank be … wherever it is I'm going?"

  "No names," Carmine repeated. "You keep your eyes peeled now for a big white-and-black sign. For Sale sign. Thirty-seven godforsaken acres for sale."

  "I don't see it."

  "Keep looking."

  There. Up ahead, on her right, white against a screen of dark pines, a painted sign announced the suitability of thirty-seven acres for development.

  "I'm there. A big black-and-white Land For Sale sign."

  "Okay. Turn right."

  "Turn where?"

  Carmine swore. "I don't know where. There's some little road. Find it."

&nbs
p; She had to turn around, executing a sloppy three-point turn across the double yellow line, but eventually she found it, a rutted construction road cut through red clay and trees.

  Doubt clutched at her. Sean could drive it in his truck. But she was in her mama's aging Buick, and every yard down this particular road took her farther into danger.

  "I can't drive down there."

  "So, park."

  She pulled up as close to the turnoff as she dared. Maybe someone would see her parked car and stop?

  Not likely. Out here, abandoned cars were lawn decoration, as common as satellite dishes.

  The heat shimmered on the empty road. There was a gleam at the top of the hill behind her, but no cars passed. No rescue came.

  "Get out of the car," Carmine ordered in her ear. "Take the money with you."

  Her chest squeezed. She did not want to leave the car. She didn't want to leave the radio.

  What if it wasn't working?

  "I don't want to get out," she said directly to her sun visor. "There's nothing here. It's a construction site."

  "All you got to do is drop off the money, Mrs. Fuller, and it's all over. Get out of the car."

  Do whatever he tells you, Gowan had said. Slowly, she got out of the car.

  "Now what?"

  "You got the money?"

  She reached inside for the brown grocery bag, picking it up from the bottom. Gowan had told her they might be able to lift prints from the top. She readjusted the phone at her ear. "I have the money."

  "Down the road, there's some big concrete pipes. Leave the bag inside one of them."

  Yes. The transmitter in the bag would lead Lee Gowan to whomever picked up the money. She wouldn't have to face Frank Bilotti at all. Rachel closed her eyes a moment against the flood of relief. She wanted the man arrested. She wanted the threats against her children's lives, her mother's home, stopped. But she was shamefully glad she didn't have to encounter him in this deserted place.

  "Should I bring the phone?" she asked Carmine.

  "Yeah. I want you to stay on the line."

  With the cell phone in one hand and the grocery bag clutched in her other arm, Rachel began to pick her way along the rutted ground. The broken clay had hardened in the heat, making walking difficult. The thin line of trees gave way to orange netting and stakes tied with strips of pink and blue plastic. Bulldozers had shaped and gouged the earth into huge hills and street beds. The sun beat down. A dog barked in the distance.

  You'll look like you're on your own. You'll feel like you're on your own, but you won't be.

  She'd feel a whole lot better with Sean beside her. Safer, under the protection of his ready strength and quick possessiveness, his dangerous looks and big, scarred hands.

  Don't go there, she told herself firmly. She could handle this without him—and without his getting hurt. She would handle this, leave the money and go home, and then everyone she loved would be safe.

  The broken roadbed wandered up a rise to a stand of forlorn trees, skinny pines and hickories shaped like toilet brushes, wrapped in orange plastic fence. Beside the trees. two bulldozers and a crane stood watch over a stockpile of concrete drainpipes, each big enough for a child to stand in.

  Sweat broke out on Rachel's upper lip. This was it. She could drop the bag now and run.

  She left the half road and made her way to the culverts. Clay crunched and pebbles rolled beneath her feet. It was quiet here. So quiet, and too hot. A warm breeze blew grit over her shoes and plastered a lunch wrapper against a pipe.

  She put the hand that held the phone on the upper lip of the opening, for balance. Crouching, she took two steps inside. The concrete interior was dark and dank and still. A brackish puddle stained the bottom. She misjudged it in the shadows and stepped right in, wetting her shoes. Ugh. Setting the bag down high on one side—did the FBI reuse conterfeit?—she backed out.

  Behind her, a deep voice rasped. "Looks like special-delivery time."

  Her heart hurtled into her throat. She turned, blinking against the sun.

  Frank Bilotti leaned against the flat yellow side of the crane, picking his teeth with his thumbnail and watching her.

  "Yeah." His gaze crawled over her simple white blouse, her legs below the hem of her plain khaki shorts. "I'd say real special."

  Her stomach pushed up to join her heart. She was going to he sick.

  No, she wasn't.

  Rachel moistened her lips. "Frank's here," she said into the phone.

  "Frankie?" Carmine's voice rose in surprise. "What the hell is that dumb bastard doing there?"

  Frank took two swift strides over the ground. Rachel flinched from his reaching hand, but he only grabbed the phone.

  "It's okay, Uncle Carmine. I got it."

  He listened a moment, his brow lowering, his lip twisting in anger. "I told you, I'm taking care of things now," he said, and pressed the little button that cut off Rachel's last connection with the world.

  The fear was back and rising. "Your uncle didn't expect you to be here."

  Frank Bilotti smiled. Not a nice smile. She shuddered. "I bet you didn't either, huh, teacher lady? It's not like country living is my style. I hate it down here. Cows. I hate cows and dirt. I don't like getting dirty."

  Rachel raised her chin a notch. "Too bad, given your line of work."

  He scowled. "The way I figure it, you owe me something for my trouble."

  Oh, God, he didn't mean… No, she reassured herself. The Bilottis were businessmen.

  "The money is in there. I put it in the pipe."

  "I saw you. Get it out."

  She was a hundred yards from her car. She could run, but he might catch her. Or he might be armed. She turned and ducked and, conscious of his watching eyes, retrieved the heavy brown paper sack from the culvert.

  She held it out to him. "Here."

  He jerked his head toward the bulldozers. "Over there. Put it in my car."

  His car must be parked out of sight. Uneasiness curdled her stomach. "I think I should go now."

  He reached behind him, and a gun appeared in his hand, blunt and dull, with a black hole like a blind eye staring at her. "And I think you should do what I say."

  She thought so, too. He didn't even have to shoot to rob her of breath. Of courage. Her hope leaked out the bottom of her wet shoes. Bilotti could take the money and run, and the transmitter would continue to signal the location of the money pack. But if he shot and dumped her, it could be tomorrow before anyone discovered her body.

  Oh, Chris. Lindsey. I'm so sorry, babies.

  Where the hell was Gowan?

  But it wasn't the federal agent Rachel yearned for. It was Sean MacNeill. She mocked her heart's hope, her stubborn, foolish faith. She'd told him and told him to leave her alone. What could he do against a gun, anyway?

  Get shot, she answered her own question. There was nothing he could do but make things worse.

  And in the end, there was nothing she could do but go where the gun pointed.

  "On the front seat. That's right." Frank smirked. "Now you get in back."

  Fear froze her legs. Anger stiffened her spine. "Why?"

  "You want to strip out here?"

  "No. That wasn't the deal. I never agreed to—" rape, she thought sickly "—to go with you."

  "The only place you're going is the back seat. Move it."

  Dear Lord. Her mind almost shut down from terror. The only place you're going… Was he going to shoot her, then, when he was done with her?

  "Why don't you just take the money and go?"

  His free hand stroked his belt. "I figure you owe me a more personal payment first. I'm gonna teach you some respect."

  She battled for breath, struggled for arguments that might save her. "We—you don't have time. What if I'm being followed?"

  "Carmine figured you might be. That's why he switched the drop. Nobody's following you. Unless…" His pumpkin head shifted on his blocky shoulders. "You wearing a wire, teacher lad
y?"

  Was that movement, on the other side of the bulldozer?

  "No," she said loudly.

  Bilotti took a step closer. His gun traced the line of her buttons. "Lemme see."

  Her gaze darted behind him and back, desperate for rescue, desperate to hold his attention. "I told you, no."

  "And I told you to do what I say. Now, are you going to take off that pretty blouse or am I?"

  If he touched her, she would vomit. Had she imagined that flicker of movement, conjured it from dust and heat and fear?

  No. There! The toe of a boot, a man's brown work boot. A glimpse of dark hair…

  Sean.

  Joy geysered through her. And then fear struck to her bones.

  What could he do against a gun? Get shot.

  She had to distract Bilotti. As slowly as she dared, she began to unbutton her shirt, not bothering to hide her trembling. Maybe her shaking hands would excuse her delay.

  Burning with rage and shame, she let the blouse hang open. She didn't dare look in the direction of the bulldozer again. "See? No wire."

  Bilotti licked his lips. "I see, all right. Nice. Get in the car."

  She was strong. She could fight him.

  And get shot? Or risk Sean getting shot?

  No. She couldn't gamble his safety on her clumsy self-defense. She would not force her children to bury their mother. Her job was to survive. Whatever it took.

  With his free hand, Bilotti opened the rear door of the car. "Hurry it up." He grinned. "I got a special delivery for you, too."

  Tears burned in her eyes. Damn it. Damn him. She climbed into the back seat. Bilotti came in after her.

  "Real nice," he said, and grabbed her breast.

  She forced herself not to resist, forced herself not to cry out in protest.

  He lowered her onto the seat and crawled between her thighs; paused, to stick the gun in the back of his waistband.

  "Now," she croaked.

  He smirked. "In a hurry, aren't you?" The window behind him darkened as something—someone—leaned against it. The door pressed in, pinning his legs as they hung out of the car. Bilotti yelled.

  Rachel scrambled backward, kicking. With a hand on her chest, he shoved her down. The other reached behind him for his gun.

  She looked past his head at the window. White shirt, dark hair…