by Emmy Grace
That’s why she was both choked and drowned.
Then enter some anonymous, half-witted henchman who was tasked with disposing of the body, one who quickly and haphazardly chained Dahlia and threw her in the water, and that’s how you end up with a woman floating, toe up, in Starving Father Lake.
That leaves me with one more question.
“So, who came up with the plan to frame Liam?”
“That was Leia’s peace offering,” Greg explains. “Even though she gave Ari a good reason for messing up his plan, she came with a solution. One he really liked.”
“How did Leia know about any of this stuff to start with? I mean, was she that close to Ari Jameson?”
“Not until she met me.”
“Ah. So you dragged her into all this?”
“No, she stepped in willingly. Speaking of my darling wife, where is she?”
That shocks me. “Wife? You two got married?”
There had been no report of anything other than their engagement. Of course, I guess when you’re marrying an assassin you have to keep certain details on the down low. Greg probably isn’t even his real name.
But that explains why they’d all be so comfortable with her knowing intimate details of this whole mad operation. Wives can’t be compelled to testify against their husbands in a court of law. And being married to an assassin might be as good as “blood in, blood out” for guys like Ari.
Then again, she almost had her blood in anyway. She actually thought she killed Dahlia. And she did it to protect her criminal husband.
Leia is far more screwed up than I gave her credit for. This goes way beyond just lying and scheming.
Liam finally answers Greg’s question. “She’s upstairs. I tied her up and gagged her before I called the police.”
“Now why would you go and do something suicidal like that?” Greg asks levelly.
“I heard Lucky scream. I reacted.”
“Not very wisely, I’m afraid.” Greg is back to sounding like a gentleman at the club, discussing a bad tennis match. It’s so disconcerting.
And probably the mark of a true sociopath. I bet he blends right in with polite society, which would make him even harder to catch.
Obviously.
“Oh, I thought it through very carefully. You see,” Liam explains, his voice every bit as calm and deliberate as Greg Carson’s. “Leia will be arrested and tried for her part in this, and you… Well, you’ll be hospitalized for your wounds and then you’ll spend the rest of your life behind bars.”
“You’re an optimist. You assume that you’ll be getting out of this alive.”
Liam starts to respond, but I don’t hear a word he says. I feel Greg tense behind me just before his weight shifts to the right. All I can think is HE’S MAKING A MOVE! HE’S MAKING A MOVE!
I think my parrot has invaded my brain.
I will be the first to admit that I flat-out freak. This is a trained killer, in a poorly lit environment that he’s much more familiar with than Liam is, and he’s making a move.
He’s making a move!
My only choice, of course, is to react. Unlike Liam, however, my response isn’t as well thought out.
Or thought out at all.
For whatever reason, I get a mental image of Reese Witherspoon doing the “bend and snap,” and before I know it, I’m folding at the waist as sharply as I possibly can, pushing my butt out at the guy behind me, and then slamming back up straight with all my might.
Lucky for me, my head slams smack into his mouth and nose. I mean, I both feel and hear the crunch of bone. Yuck! But I can’t be concerned about that right now. Right now, I’ve managed to stun an armed and dangerous psycho. I must capitalize.
I have animals. Lots of them. And I’ve always been fond of animals. Even some animal behaviors.
I don’t know what kind of animal behavior this would constitute, probably a really dumb animal, but the moment I hear Greg grunt after I crush his face, all I can think is BITE!
I need a soft spot to sink teeth into, and only one besides his neck comes to mind. I spin toward Greg, drop into a squat, and without giving it a second thought, I bury my teeth in his upper thigh. He’s wearing thin, high-quality slacks, which means I can really get some flesh in my mouth. Flesh and really nice fine wool.
He yowls in pain and flinches away from me for a second before he fists one hand in my hair and starts to pull. I’m holding on for dear life, though. He can snatch me bald-headed, but I’m not letting go. I’m like Mr. Jingles with a bone. In fact, I go so far as to wrap my arms around his leg and hang on tight. He’s not getting loose until Liam has performed one of his FBI magic tricks.
And, fortunately, that doesn’t take long because my jaws are already hurting and I think I’m missing a clump of hair. I hope when this is over I’m not legally bald instead of legally blonde.
This all happens within about five seconds or so. I bend and snap, turn and bite, and then there’s a rapid pop pop!
Greg yelps again and does this twitchy thing. I figure it’s probably from the impact of the shots. Then someone is tearing me away from Greg’s leg and all I hear is a bunch of grunting and scuffling. I crawl away and aim for my phone, which is lying off to one side. I guess I let go in the shuffle. Bending and snapping requires too much concentration for me to hold onto a phone, too.
Bless its little heart, though, the flashlight is still burning pretty brightly, so I use one arm to get over to it, pick it up, and aim the beam at the two men, who, at present, look like two dogs fighting over a juicy bone. Not sure what the juicy bone is in this instance. Control of one of the guns? The upper hand? Life? Survival?
All of the above?
My heart is in my throat as I watch, but I don’t have to be concerned for Liam’s safety for long. Expertly, he does this twist-heave-slam thing (that’s the technical term, I’m sure) and then he’s on top, knees and elbows cracking into various parts of Greg’s body.
Once Liam gets on top, it takes him exactly ten seconds of extreme and very fast close-quarters butt-kickery to beat Greg into submission. Then he’s flipping him over onto his belly and jamming a knee into his back like I’ve seen him do before.
I think that might get hotter every time he does it.
The room is quiet but for the pounding of my heart and heaving breathing. Theirs and mine. Bending and snapping wore me out.
I scramble-slash-scurry lamely over to the doorway and flip on the overhead light so I can see what’s going on. Like a fully clothed, equally gorgeous gladiator, Liam is leaning victoriously over his opponent. He has one knee on Greg’s right hand and his other knee in the center of his back. He is bending Greg’s other arm at the elbow and has it wrenched up high on his back. It looks quite painful, as I can attest to.
“You okay?” Liam asks, turning to meet my eye. I see him scan me from head to toe, presumably looking for wounds. I’m currently holding my only wound close to my body to keep it as still as possible.
“Yep. Golden.” There’s only a tiny bit of sarcasm in my tone.
A teeny tiny bit.
“Did he hurt your arm?”
“I think it’s dislocated.”
Liam’s brows drop down into his thundercloud. He takes his gun, which he’d already tucked back into his waistband, and flips it over to hold it by the barrel. He turns to pistol whip Greg in the back of his head as hard as he can. I mean, I hear the thwack. It’s as cool as it is sickening.
Liam relaxes somewhat, pivoting until he’s facing me, but still has one knee on Greg’s hand. I guess so he can feel it if the criminal rouses, which I doubt will happen for at least a week. Greg Carson has been shot (three times by my count), punched, kicked, head-butted, bitten, and now cracked in the back of the head. The fact that he lasted this long is probably a testament to his extreme assassin training, whatever that might’ve included.
“Come here,” Liam says gently, motioning me toward him with one hand while he replaces his gun
at his low back with the other.
I walk over to him and he opens his arms wide. The gesture takes me by surprise at first, but then my heart melts into a Lucky-sized puddle all around my feet.
I fall onto my knees and lean into his embrace. It takes me all of one whole second to relax against his chest.
Man, this criminal apprehension thing is exhausting.
So sweetly, Liam wraps his arms around me and gives me the world’s most tender hug. I’m just taking a deep breath with which to sigh my utter contentment when Liam does some sort of thing where he cups my shoulder and pulls it sharply toward him.
I hardly even have time to gasp in pain or shock as the ball of my arm slips back into joint. It’s like a slightly delayed reaction. It just happens to fast.
But not fast enough to mitigate the pain that lances through me when the surprise abates.
I still don’t gasp or scream or really make a single sound. I just do what I’m beginning to do best—react viscerally.
It’s like since my brain isn’t firing, my stomach steps up to say I’VE GOT THIS. I KNOW WHAT TO DO.
I think my gut must be in direct competition with my weak bladder (and possibly my propensity toward unconsciousness) to see who can act up at the worst possible times.
My abs clench, I shift to the side, fold at the waist, and everything I’ve eaten that hasn’t made its way to my intestines comes charging back up my esophagus. Thankfully for both of us, this time I’m inadvertently aiming it at the criminal rather than Liam.
I throw up all over the back of Greg Carson’s head. It wasn’t planned, of course, but I’m sort of pleased about it. I was thrown up on a couple of days ago. That’s the kind of love a person wants to spread around and share. Can’t keep that type of glory to oneself, ya know?
“You do that a lot,” Liam says quietly.
When I straighten and look at his face, his top lip is curled.
I grin. “I bet you really wanna kiss me now, huh?”
He makes no response, but I see the lightening of his eyes and the indenting of the corner of his mouth. He’s amused.
I amuse Liam Dunning.
That fills me with enough joy and satisfaction to quiet a small amount of the pain that’s radiating from my shoulder.
I may have found my second calling in life—make Liam laugh.
21
Within ten minutes, the house is abuzz with activity. Clive and Petey are the first to arrive.
They find us all upstairs. Leia and Greg restrained, Liam guarding, and me nursing my arm on the couch.
Clive grins the moment he sees me. “You’re a tough nut to crack, aren’t you, lucky lady?”
“Apparently so.” As if on cue, the crown of my head throbs. I’m afraid to touch it just in case I have a gaping bald spot where Greg the Goon yanked on my hair. “You need us to stick around for a statement, or can we come by tomorrow?”
“Well, being as tomorrow is Thanksgiving and you’ll have the turkey maze, I’d be fine with Friday, but it’s not my call, you understand,” he explains.
“Why not?”
Who else’s would it be?
Before he can even answer, a tall, extremely handsome guy walks through the front door of Leia’s lair. My first impression of him is…
Dark.
Just…dark.
He’s wearing a black Henley tucked into equally black slacks. His government-short hair is the color of a raven’s wing and the sharp eyes scanning the room aren’t much lighter. His square jaw is covered in five o’clock shadow and my guess is that when he dons the aviator sunglasses folded into the neck of his shirt, he probably looks like a model. The shirtless ones.
While my first thought is dark, my second thought is Regina. In big, flashing capital letters like a squeal of delight.
REGINA!
She would soil herself if she could see this guy. I think even Petey is dumbstruck. He’s just standing a foot and a half away from me, staring like he’s trapped in the high beams of an oncoming car. Poor guy. As if living in the same town with Liam wasn’t bad enough, now this man shows up on the scene.
“Lucky, this is Steven Locke. He’s with the U.S. Marshal Service.”
Those black-as-night eyes slide over to mine and he nods his head in curt acknowledgement. “Ma’am.”
“It’s nice to meet you. Mind if I ask what a marshal is doing here?”
“I can’t get into specifics, but the man you’ve apprehended is someone we have an interest in.”
How very…uninformative.
“Y’all do witness protection and that stuff, right?” I ask him.
Again, he nods. “That’s part of what we do, yes.”
My mental wheels start turning again.
“Is Greg Carson even this guy’s real name? Is he an escaped witness?” I gasp and give an embarrassingly Welcome Back Kotter “Oh, oh, oh! Or is he an escaped convict who’s been living under an alias for, like, ten years or something?”
“What part of ‘can’t get into specifics’ didn’t you understand?” he asks in a deep rumble.
I sigh loudly and glance back at Liam, who’s just making his way over to us. When he stops at my side, I glare up at him. “This is another federal person. He’s surly, too. Y’all should get along fine.”
Liam just shakes his head, ignores me, and extends his hand to the man in question. “Liam Dunning.”
“Steven Locke. U.S. Marshal Service.”
Liam nods. “I used to be Bureau.” He crosses his arms over his chest and the two men stare at each other.
There’s about a fifteen second pause, during which they both silently size each other up. I wonder if there are rivalries between government agencies. Like, are the FBI the Sopranos and the Marshals the Cifarettos?
Please, Lord, let them prove their dominance in a shirtless arm wrestling match.
Steven Locke must’ve decided that Liam is an ally, though, because he gives one quick nod, much like the one he gave me, crosses to Liam, claps one big hand on his shoulder, and says, “Let’s talk in the other room.”
I watch the two saunter away, trying not to be miffed. I mean, I know I’m not any kind of law person. Or even an ex law person for that matter. But it still stings to be so blatantly excluded, especially when I was kind of instrumental in the apprehension of the man in question.
But whatever.
I don’t do this for the thanks. I do it because I want to bring justice for people who have been wronged and to see criminals put behind bars.
And, of course, if I’m being completely and totally honest, because I love it. I love the mystery and intrigue of it all. I love figuring out the whos and the whys, the whens and the wheres.
Clive meanders over to me. “Looks like they’ll be gone for a while. Would you like me to give you a ride home, Lucky?”
“That’s okay, Clive. I appreciate it, but you’ve got work to do here. I’ll have Regina come and get me.”
It’s true that Clive has work to do, but the bigger reason for me calling Regina is because she would skin me alive if I didn’t let her at least see the surly Adonis. I’ll tell her to bring some smelling salts so I can revive her if her ovaries explode and cause her to pass out.
The mischievous part of me doesn’t want to give her fair warning, though. That would ruin all the fun. The most I do is give her a head’s up to look nice. I could let her come ready for bed and all. That would be fun for me, but let’s not get ridiculous. Regina would maim me. Like, legit maim me if I let her walk into gorgeous guy territory not looking her best.
So I simply text her this:
Will you please, please come and get me at Princess Liar’s house (Leia the hooch)? And put on your nice clothes. It’s a crime scene. Lots of people here.
I think that will suffice since most of Regina’s clothes are nice, and I think she has some sort of rule against putting on nice clothes without at least smearing on some lipstick and mascara.
Twenty mi
nutes later, little has changed. I’m sitting on a chair by the door, debating the wisdom of just cutting off my arm to make it stop throbbing. Clive and Petey have been relegated to inventorying the house, so they’re not much company. And Liam and Steven are planning their wedding and naming their first three children, so there’s no point even trying to break into that little brotherhood.
Every time I’ve gone in search of them, I find them in a different room, standing with their heads bent toward each other, discussing secret things in low voices. It’s very hot and very Hollywood, but at the moment, it’s also very frustrating. I still have no clue what’s going on and neither of them seems to care that I’m even on the planet.
Finally, my back up arrives in the form of a gorgeous Cajun whose hair is swept up into a messy bun, revealing a face that’s stunningly perfect for this close to midnight. As I suspected, she looks fantastic. She’s dressed in pale pink slacks and a cashmere sweater to match, paired with heels. Of course. Nude colored heels.
I think Regina was probably born with heels on her tiny feet and a designer purse clutched in her tiny hand.
“What are you laughing at?” she asks when she makes her way to me.
I hadn’t meant to laugh at the mental picture.
“I’m not laughing.”
She gives me a wry look. “Try that again on someone who doesn’t know you like the back of her Cajun hand.”
“Fine,” I sigh in resignation. “I was picturing you being born with teeny tiny Jimmy Choos on your feet, dragging a Prada purse out of the womb.”
“I’m sure there’s an insult in there somewhere, but I’m too tired to dig for it. I got dressed up to come and get you, just like you said. And now I’m here, so let’s go.”
“You seem awfully snippy,” I note in concern. “Something happen?”
“Other than the utter lack of prospects in this stupid little town that you brought me to? Other than the fact that my biological clock is a banging gong that I hear in the back of my head, day and night? Other than the fact that I’m having yet another period when I should be having a baby? No, nothing happened. And that’s the problem.”