Mac Byrne shrugged lazily, drumming his fingers on his crossed knee. “What can I tell you? I’m always one step ahead, anticipating my clients’ needs.”
“Yes. Well.” William leaned forward. Mac mimicked the posture. “This takes our arrangement to a whole nother plane, doesn’t it?”
Mac raised his palms in unspoken concurrence. His eyes shone with an unholy mixture of greed and something William was beginning to suspect was madness.
He had to proceed carefully.
“Where are you keeping her?” he asked.
Mac leaned back with a cagey smile. “Leave the particulars to me. That’s what you pay me for.”
William’s jaw clenched. “Yes. So it is.”
“Speaking of which…” Mac indicated the solitary object lying on the desktop: Candy Carmelle’s ray gun. “We’ll settle up on this now, get it out of the way.”
William tapped his lips with his steepled index fingers. “No. No, I don’t think so.”
Mac’s eyes widened.
“I prefer a package deal. The gun and Candy. One price for both.”
Mac’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “That wasn’t the agreement.”
William smiled grimly. “Neither was kidnapping. Seems I underestimated your initiative. What are yourterms?”
Mac licked his lips. “Ten million.”
“Four.”
Mac made a rude noise. “Eight. That’s my final offer, and I deserve every penny of it. I’m taking a hell of a risk here, William. She can identify me. I might have to go into hiding, change my name.” He tried to stare William down but was the first to blink.
“I don’t have it.”
“Bull.”
“Not liquid, I mean. It would take a couple of weeks, minimum, to get ahold of that kind of cash.”
Mac slapped the arm of his chair. “Lean on someone, dammit! I’m not gonna wait two weeks.”
William asked, “And if I fail to come up with the money? For argument’s sake,” he added quickly. “What happens to Candy then?”
Mac’s tone of voice was downright guileless. “She becomes a very sad story on page five, William.” His sweeping gesture indicated the headline. “Former Starlet Found Drowned—Drug Use Suspected.” He snickered. “She’ll learn what it really means to be washed up.”
The image Mac’s words conjured was too painful to contemplate. “That won’t be necessary. I’m a man of my word. You just make sure nothing happens to her.”
“You just make sure I get my eight mil. Pronto.” He slouched in his chair, a cocky smile in place.
“I want to see her. I want to see for myself that she’s unharmed.”
“Sorry. You’ll have to take my word on that.”
William knew better than to take this maniac’s word on anything, but at the moment he had no choice. “Listen. About her being able to identify you. Don’t give it a thought. Once she realizes what a sweet deal she has with me, she’ll kiss you in gratitude. Turning you in will be the last thing on her mind.”
“You sound pretty sure of yourself. Must be this obsession of yours, all those Candy souvenirs you’ve been collecting for decades. The photos, news clippings.” He nodded toward the ray gun. “Relics from her film career. You might’ve convinced yourself you know what makes the lady tick, but the truth is, she doesn’t know you from Adam, am I right?”
Something in his sly eyes, the way he said it, put William on the alert. Mac was fishing. This was dangerous territory.
“That’s true, of course, but the fact is, I can be very persuasive. Have you forgotten she’s spent the last three years living in some dilapidated houseboat? Until Easter, that is.”
Mac looked around, taking in the sumptuous furnishings of William’s East Coast office. “You got a point. I can’t see her squawking once you install her in that mansion of yours out in Hollywood.”
“And unless I miss my guess, the daughter doesn’t want her living with her anymore. The literary agent. Zara.”
At that, Mac’s expression turned chillingly flat, his pupils mere pinpoints. His fingers tightened on the arm of his chair. William wondered what it was about Zara Sutcliffe that triggered such a reaction.
His mind raced. “Zara wasn’t home when you grabbed Candy, was she? You didn’t have to. subdue her.?”
“No. She was overseas, on business.”
William let out the breath he was holding. He didn’t ask how Mac had managed to purchase the ray gun from Zara while she was out of the country. He’d had enough of the man’s smarmy evasiveness.
He stood. “Give me a number where I can reach you.”
“Can’t do that, but I’ll call you every day. Around noon.” He rose, too. “Get moving on the money, William. Light a fire under someone.”
William didn’t offer his hand. “I will be very displeased if anything happens to Candy.” He spoke slowly and deliberately. “Need I tell you, I possess the resources to more than even the score when something displeases me.” He watched Mac’s face go rigid.
“Are you threatening me?”
“Yes.” He smiled thinly. “I’m glad we understand each other. Close the door on your way out.”
“DON’T LIE TO ME. I know he’s been in touch with you.” Logan stared at Madeline Byrne’s stiff back as she stirred a pot on the stove. The mouth-watering aroma of spicy chili permeated the entire house.
She opened the oven door and checked the golden corn bread swelling in a cast-iron pan. “You’ll believe what you want to believe, no matter what we say.”
Douglas Byrne spoke from the doorway of the shabby little kitchen. “If I’d known you were here to harass us, I wouldn’t have let you in.”
He sighed. “Look, I know this isn’t easy for you.”
“You don’t know a damn thing!” Douglas stalked toward him. “What right do you have barging in here demanding answers!”
Madeline turned around, her face drawn. “Douglas…”
“I want him out of here!”
Logan held his ground. He knew they’d go to any lengths to protect Mac. “When was the last time you saw him?”
Madeline’s faded blue eyes glistened; her mouth quivered. In that moment Logan didn’t know who he despised more, Mac or himself. “You don’t get it, do you?” she whispered. “You actually expect us to betray our own son.”
“Careful, Maddie,” Douglas sneered. “Anything you say can and will be used against you. Isn’t that how it works, Agent Byrne?”
Logan stood there staring at his father, absorbing his contempt. “I quit the FBI two years ago. You know that.”
“Then why the hell can’t you leave your brother alone? What is this…vendetta you have? Do you hate Mac that much?”
I don’t hate my brother, I love him, he wanted to say. God help me, I still love him.
“This isn’t about hate. He’s hurting people, Dad. He’s hurting himself. It’s just a matter of time before he crosses the line and does something.”
Something he’s already planned He thought of Zara Sutcliffe swaddled in her sleeping bag, trembling under his touch, her brown eyes wide and liquid in the semidark.
He blinked away the unwelcome image. “When that day comes-and it will if no one stops him—then God help him. God help us all. There’ll be no saving him then. Have you forgotten New York State now has a death penalty?”
Their stricken expressions caused a brief flare of hope that he’d gotten through to them at last.
He should have known better. His mother recovered first, approaching him slowly, hesitantly, as if he were a stranger to be feared. He felt something in his chest wrench painfully. Even after everything, the horror and heartache of the last two decades, this distance between them, the soul-deep sense of loss, still tore at him.
She stopped directly in front of him, her face a mask of anguish and outrage. “Where’s your sense of loyalty? Don’t you know what it means to stick by your family? Are you that cold? I look at you and I wonder what kin
d of man I’ve raised.” Tears spilled from her eyes and traced the creases of her weary face.
Logan lifted his hands…and dropped them at his sides without touching her. “I know you think you’re helping Mac, Mom, but you’re hurting him. Every time you lie for him, every time you take him in and shield him from the authorities, you’re making it worse.”
“He’s different!” she shrieked, gesturing wildly, her face mottled. “He’s not like you. You can take care of yourself. Mac needs our help—”
“I’m trying to help him!”
His father shouted, “By hauling him to jail?”
“Mac won’t go to prison. He belongs in a mental facility. He’s brain damaged.”
“Don’t say that,” Madeline wailed. “He’s not…like that. He’s just different. Ever since the accident.”
Logan didn’t bother reminding her that the event that irrevocably altered the life of an eighteen-yearold Mac Byrne was no accident.
He said, “Mac has kidnapped a woman.”
His parents recoiled as if he’d struck them. Douglas said, “That’s a lie!”
“A sixty-one-year-old woman with two daughters who are worried sick about her.” He watched his parents exchange uneasy glances. “I don’t know where he’s keeping her,” he continued. “If you have any idea at all where he might be hiding out…”
His father shook his head mutely. They both avoided Logan’s eyes. “I don’t believe it,” Douglas muttered.
Logan’s parents appeared frail, exhausted by the hardships of their life, not the least of which was loving a son like MacGowan Byrne. They’d bought this modest little house in Orange County, New York, thirty-five years ago, when their twin sons were happy, dark-haired infants and the future glowed with limitless potential.
He wondered if they lay in bed at night sharing memories of those halcyon days, wishing they could turn back the clock.
He moved to the wall phone and the message board mounted next to it. A marker dangled from a string. “Here’s my phone number. It’s a cellular phone, but it’s always on. Call me if anything occurs to you. Anything.”
His mother glanced at the number quickly, almost furtively, as if he’d inscribed an obscene limerick on the wall of her kitchen. He wondered if she’d erase it the minute he left.
They didn’t ask him to stay for lunch. He let himself out quietly, thinking about how much his brother loved chili and corn bread.
“RUN THIS BY ME AGAIN. Why exactly do I have to do this?” Zara’s palm perspired around the small cellular phone.
“You’re my best bet to draw Mac out of hiding.”
“Because he has nasty things in store for me.” She tried to smile.
Something close to understanding flickered in Logan’s eyes. He didn’t respond but simply pried her stiff, cold fingers from around the phone and flipped it open. “You won’t have to talk to him, Zara. You’ll get his answering machine. He’s been careful to avoid his home and office. This is the only way to get in touch with him.” He punched in some numbers. “I’d do it myself if I could.”
He handed her the phone. She told herself she was being ridiculous. She didn’t have to face the guy—she didn’t even have to talk directly to him. All she had to do was force her voice to remain calm and—
”You have reached the office of MacGowan Byrne Ltd.” It was a brisk female voice. “Leave a message and your call will be returned as soon as possible.”
As she waited for the beep, Zara forced a couple of deep breaths and pretended this nightmare wasn’t real, that the recipient of her message wasn’t out for her blood. Logan was betting that Mac didn’t know Zara was on to him. With any luck, he’d think Zara had just gotten back into town and didn’t know about her mother’s kidnapping or the meeting that nearly ended in Emma’s death.
Beep.
“Mac, this is Zara Sutcliffe. I was wondering if it would be possible for you to meet me this evening—I’ve just acquired a couple of pieces of Hollywood memorabilia that I think you might be interested in.”
Logan gestured at her. Slow down. Another deep breath.
“You won’t be able to reach me this afternoon, but I’m hoping you get this message in time to meet me at Vincenza’s in Little Italy. Say, eight o’clock? See you then.”
She snapped the phone closed, squeezed her eyes shut and groaned, feeling her pulse sprint. Logan’s warm, clean scent filled her nostrils and she inhaled deeply, comforted by his proximity. Only when she felt his hand on the back of her head did she realize she’d slumped against him. She opened her eyes and they homed in on the black grip of his semiautomatic resting in his holster, inches from her face.
Her head whipped up and she scuttled back a step.
“You did great,” he said.
“I did? Do you think so? Do you think he’ll get the message in time?”
“I know he will. Mac checks his machine several times a day.”
She was about to ask how he knew a detail like that before she remembered that he’d already danced around that question once.
She’d woken early, as soon as the sun had lit the huge warehouse room. The space next to her on the floor had been empty. No sleeping bag. No Logan.
Had she dreamed that strange interlude in the middle of the night? His deep, gentle voice, his hand on her waist. The startling sense of intimacy.
She’d looked around and found his sleeping bag, neatly rolled and placed with the luggage. She’d risen and stretched, listening for sounds from the bathroom. Nothing.
Had he left her again? She’d crossed the cold concrete floor and verified that the john was vacant. When she tried the door through which she’d entered the warehouse, she saw that, once more, she was locked in. The dead bolt needed a key from either side.
He said it was for her protection, but still it rankled. Special Agent Logan Pierce was entirely too autocratic for her taste.
Apparently he’d made an early morning breakfast run—she found a sack of bagels, still warm, a container of cream cheese, a bottle of orange juice and a large cardboard cup of coffee, plus several packets of sugar, diet sweetener and half-and-half. Eagerly tugging the lid off the coffee, she mused that that file at FBI headquarters must not include the fact that she took her coffee black.
As she ate half a poppy-seed bagel with the thinnest schmeer of cream cheese—had the man never heard of low fat?—she eyed his duffel. The day before, when he’d deposited her like so much baggage and left for three hours, she hadn’t had the nerve to take a peek.
Now she was a half day wearier, a few degrees less intimidated and a whole hell of a lot more frustrated. And that duffel was just too tantalizing.
Besides, hadn’t this man unapologetically searched not only her luggage but her home, as well?
The less you know, the better.
“Oh, I don’t think so,” she murmured, and abandoned her breakfast to saunter across the room to Agent Pierce’s bag.
Rationally she knew he’d never leave anything important lying around where she could prowl through it. Still, she admitted to a certain curiosity about the man himself—the taciturn G-man with the hard golden eyes. Her irrepressible imagination again.
She approached the big, scraped-up canvas duffel as if it might explode at the first touch. No lock. She grasped the zipper pull and glanced at the door. And opened the duffel all the way until it lay gaping before her.
She bent down to peer inside, afraid to touch anything. She saw T-shirts, underwear and socks, jeans, rugged work shoes, a dark hooded sweatshirt and a plastic garbage bag, apparently for dirty laundry. Shoving the clothing aside, she spied a few small cartons. Bullets. Well, no surprise there. And a leather contraption, which she soon identified as a small holster, the kind that could be concealed beneath a waistband.
A worn leather toilet kit was tucked at the end. She lifted it out and shook it, hearing small objects rattle around. She’d seen his toothbrush, soap and razor on the rim of the rust-stained s
ink in the bathroom, a small bottle of shampoo in the cramped, mildewy shower stall. She unzipped the kit and poked at the contents. A couple of extra disposable shavers, odds and ends like Band-Aids and Q-Tips.
She smiled, tickled by the ludicrous notion of traveling with a toilet kit this size. She herself needed separate bulky bags for her makeup, toiletries and hair-care appliances. Not to mention her portable iron and lighted makeup mirror.
Her fingers brushed against something with a sharp corner. She pulled it out and stood staring at a string of condom packets. Half a dozen of them.
“Oh my.” Lubricated. Ultrasensitive. She peered at the fine print. Ribbed for her pleasure.
The thought of Agent Pierce ribbed for her pleasure sprang into her consciousness before she could shoot it down. When she could breathe again she carefully refolded the packets, accordion-style, and replaced them in the kit. She chewed her lip. Was that just where they were before? Would he notice she’d been through it? Would he care?
Oh, God.
She’d shoved the kit back in the duffel and yanked the thing closed with a vengeance. And turned to her own luggage to find something to wear.
He’d returned in the early afternoon, with yet more food. Did he think if he kept her stomach filled, she wouldn’t notice she was a virtual prisoner?
Now, watching him kneel by his open duffel, inspecting the contents, she felt her heart squirm into her throat. His back was to her, and she watched the play of powerful muscles beneath his navy T-shirt. She heard the whisper of a zipper and knew he was looking in his toilet kit.
Just whose damn pleasure were those things ribbed for, anyway? Was there some wife or lady friend somewhere, or did Logan carry the things around in case he got lucky?
He threw a glance over his shoulder. “Been going through my stuff, Zara?”
Her throat tried to close, but she managed to squeak, “No! God, no!” She didn’t know why she was embarrassed. He’d felt no compunction about pawing through her worldly possessions.
He stared at her a moment, expressionless. He knew. He turned back to his duffel and zipped it. “Just don’t mess with the ammo.”
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