Читать книгу His 7-Day Fiancée - Gail Barrett - Страница 9

The telephone was ringing again.

Amanda sat motionless on her sister’s patio, her muscles tensing, the teaching application she’d filled out forgotten in her hand.

“Phone, Mommy,” Claire announced from her turtleshaped sandbox in the yard.

“I know.” Amanda tried not to let fear seep into her voice. “But Aunt Kendall’s at rehearsal. We’ll let the answering machine pick it up.” And hope to God it wasn’t another hang-up call.

The answering machine kicked on, and her sister’s perky voice floated through the open sliding glass door. The machine beeped. The abrupt silence of the disconnected line made her stomach churn.

She set down her papers and rubbed her arms—chilled now, despite the heat. It was just another wrong number or a junk phone call. There was nothing sinister about people calling and hanging up. Annoying, yes. Dangerous, no.

Even if the hang-up calls had only begun three days ago, after the casino attack. Even if they now got a dozen such calls a day. Even if whenever she answered the phone, there was only heavy, ominous breathing—nothing more.

It couldn’t be reporters. They would talk to her, ask questions, not just breathe and hang up.

This was something Wayne would do—something he had done to unsettle her nerves. But Wayne was in jail. That detective had checked.

She set her pen on the table and rose, placed a rock over the job application so it wouldn’t flutter away. Regardless of who was calling, she wasn’t going to let this get to her. And she wasn’t going to let Claire sense her fear. She’d moved here to give her daughter a safer, more peaceful life, and she would succeed.

“It’s time to get the mail and have our snack.” She struggled to make her voice cheerful, but Claire still looked at her and frowned. “How about some apple juice and animal crackers today?”

“Okay.” Claire trotted over, and Amanda brushed the sand off her daughter’s bottom and hands, adjusted the sun hat flopping around her sweet face.

“Wait. Brownie.” Claire grabbed the bear she’d propped on the patio chair and hugged it close. Too close. Had Claire picked up on her fear?

She forced a smile to lighten the mood. “Is Brownie going to help us get the mail?” She knew the answer, of course. Claire didn’t go anywhere without her bear. Brownie ate with her, slept with her, played with her. She’d hugged off most of its fur, kissed the color from its once-black eyes. Amanda prayed that bear never got lost, or Claire would be destroyed.

“You two can lead the way,” she added, and followed her along the walkway to the gate. Her sister lived in one of the new developments that had sprung up during the recent building boom. It was a modest, family-oriented neighborhood with two-story stucco homes, a far cry from Wayne’s luxury condo at the Ritz Carlton in DC. And thank goodness for that. Wayne had been all about status, appearances. He didn’t care that there’d been no place for Claire to ride a bike or play.

She unlatched the gate, waited for Claire to toddle through. She couldn’t even begin to imagine how Luke Montgomery lived. She’d read up on him during the past few days, learned that he was a notorious playboy, a megabillionaire developer who owned casinos and resorts throughout the world. That suit he’d worn had probably cost more than her car.

An image of his broad, muscled shoulders, the dark, sexy planes of his face flashed into her mind. She didn’t doubt the playboy part. The man was lethally attractive with his deeply graveled voice and intense eyes. And that moment in the hallway when she’d thought he was going to kiss her…

She shut the gate behind her with a forceful click. Surely she’d imagined his interest in her. Luke Mont-gomery operated completely outside her orbit—which was fine with her. She had all she wanted in life right here. Maybe she didn’t hobnob with billionaires, and maybe she’d once dreamed of a more exciting life, but she had a great sister, a daughter she adored. And soon she’d have a job and her own house, too.

She just needed to lose this constant fear.

“Wait for me,” she warned Claire. She grabbed her daughter’s hand to make sure she didn’t dart off, then walked with her toward the mailbox. The warm sun shimmered off the neighbors’ redtiled roofs. Palm fronds rustled in the breeze. Laughter and the thump of a bouncing basketball came from some teens shooting hoops down the street.

She let Claire open the mailbox and pull out the advertisements and bills. She lunged forward to catch a sheath of junk mail tumbling loose.

“Mine,” Claire cried and clutched the mail.

“I’m just getting the stuff that fell.” She scooped up the ads and stray letters and then closed the box. A plain white envelope in her hand caught her eye.

She paused, turned it over. No name. No address.

A sliver of foreboding snaked up her back.

She shook it off, exasperated by her overreaction. She was getting ridiculous, imagining danger at every turn. It was probably an advertisement. She tore open the back flap, pulled out the contents—a piece of white paper, some photos.

Photos of Claire.

Her heart stopped.

She flipped through the photos. Claire riding her pink tricycle. Claire eating at the kitchen table. Claire sleeping next to Brownie in her bed.

The air turned thick. Her hands shook as she unfolded the note. “Put the diamond in the mailbox or else.”

Her lungs seized up. Sheer panic roared through her veins. She fought to maintain her composure, but every instinct screeched at her to snatch Claire up and flee.

Calm down, she ordered herself fiercely. Don’t let Claire see your fear.

Forcing her feet to move slowly, normally, she followed her daughter back to the house. She looked casually to the neighbor’s windows—no movement there. She opened the gate and let Claire through, then snuck a glance at the street. Empty.

But someone was spying on them, taking photos of Claire.

Her panic intensified, threatening to overwhelm her, but she ruthlessly crushed it down. She ushered Claire calmly into the house and locked the sliding glass door. She lifted Claire to the sink and washed her hands. Still working on autopilot, she took out the juice, helped Claire into her chair, opened the animal crackers and propped up the bear.

“What’s wrong, Mommy?” Claire asked, her voice tight.

“Nothing. Nothing at all.” Her falsely cheerful voice sounded too far away. “It’s just a little hot in here. I’m going to close the drapes to keep it cool. I’ll be right back.”

She forced her lips into a brittle smile, closed the blinds on the sliding glass door and strolled sedately into the hall. Then she raced around the house like a maniac, locking the windows, yanking the drapes closed, scrambling up and down the stairs, rushing from room to room to room, throwing the deadbolts on every door.

She returned to the kitchen, sank into a seat across the table from Claire and covered her face with her hands. What on earth was going on here? What diamond? She’d sold her wedding ring as soon as she’d left Wayne.

Besides, Wayne was in jail. It couldn’t be him.

Unless he’d hired someone else to harass her.

Trying to compose herself, she scrubbed her face with her quivering hands. God, she was sick of this. So bloody tired. All she wanted was a life without fear. Was that too much to ask?

The phone rang.

She jerked up her head, stared at the phone. Her palms started to sweat.

The ringing stopped. The answering machine turned on. Her sister’s message ended, and the machine made its high-pitched beep.

And then there was heavy breathing.

“Tonight.” The single word cleaved the silence, detonating her nerves. The machine clicked off. The tape whirred softly as it rewound.

Her adrenaline surged. Panic wiped out her thoughts. She had to run. Flee. Go somewhere, anywhere, and keep her daughter safe.

She looked at Claire, saw her daughter’s lower lip quiver, the anxiety pinching her face. And she knew with dead certainty that she couldn’t run. If this was Wayne, he’d only find them again. For Claire’s sake, she had to end this terror now.

And if there was one thing she’d learned about her exhusband, it was that he thrived on power and control. He wanted to see her run, plead, whimper with fear. And she’d be damned if she’d play his sick games.

She rose, her knees knocking so hard she could barely stand, and crossed the kitchen to the answering machine. She ejected the tape, slipped it into her pocket and disconnected the phone.

Then she grabbed her purse from the counter and fumbled through her wallet for Detective Martinez’s card. She found Luke Montgomery’s number instead.

She hesitated. Should she call him? If the letter and phone calls were related to the casino attack, he would want to know.

But her priority was Claire, keeping her safe. Which meant reporting this to the police—no matter what Luke Montgomery might want.

Still, the memory of the skepticism in his eyes made her pause. He hadn’t trusted her; that had been clear. He thought she’d sell her story to the highest bidder, even though she’d given him her word.

And maybe she was a fool to care, but there was something sad about a man that cynical, who thought that money always talked. And if she didn’t call him now, she’d only confirm his jaded beliefs.

So maybe she should warn him. Maybe she should update him on this latest threat first and then inform the police.

And pray that whoever was watching them did n’t see them go.

She met her daughter’s frightened eyes, and a frigid pit formed in her gut. Claire was right to be afraid. Because if their watcher learned what she was up to, her daughter would pay the price.

The Las Vegas police were certainly thorough. Three hours later, Amanda still hunched on a folding metal chair in the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police station while Claire dozed on her lap. She’d turned over the evidence, given multiple statements, submitted fingerprints so they could exclude her prints from the note. Now several people crowded around her in the airconditioned room—the detective she’d met in the casino, a petite police officer named Natalie Rothchild, several others whose names she couldn’t recall.

And Luke Montgomery. He’d arrived shortly after she had, to her surprise. Now he sat in the chair beside her, the sleeves of his crisp white shirt rolled up, his dark forearms braced on his knees, listening intently while Natalie Rothchild summed up the case.

The police officer tucked her short brown hair behind her ears, then cleared her throat. “All right, then. In light of these developments, I think we have to consider the possibility that the ring isn’t lost after all.”

“Damn,” Luke muttered.

Amanda glanced around at the circle of grim faces, confused. “What ring?”

Detective Martinez shifted his bulky frame in his seat. “We had a murder case recently—a woman named Candace Rothchild.You might have read about it in the news.”

“Yes.” She’d read up on the sensational case after she’d met Luke.

“She was Natalie’s sister,” he added.

“Oh.” Amanda shifted her gaze to the other woman. “I’m sorry.”

Natalie nodded. A pained look shadowed her eyes. “The night she was killed, Candace was wearing a diamond ring, a family heirloom we called the Tears of the Quetzal. We never found it, so we assumed it was lost. But we’ll have to rethink that now.”

Amanda frowned. “You think my note is related to that ring?”

“I think we have to consider that possibility, yes.”

“But I just moved here. How could I possibly be involved?”

“That’s what we need to find out. And it might not be related. But we can’t rule it out, especially since the man who held you up demanded a ring. And that note is similar to the one my father received.” She turned her head, spoke to one of the men. “Get that note to Lex Duncan at the FBI, will you?”

Amanda’s head whirled. She gaped at the nodding men. Surely they were joking. She was tangled up in a diamond theft? It didn’t make any sense.

She gave her head a sharp shake, tried to recall the facts of the case. From what she’d read, Luke had hosted a jewelry convention in his casino a few weeks back. Celebrities from around the globe had attended the glitzy event—including the casino heiress Candace Rothchild. Later that night she’d been murdered, her ring stolen. The priceless diamond ring—rumored to be under a bizarre curse promising the wearer love at first sight—had never been found.

Luke had originally been a suspect, although he’d later been cleared of the crime. She cut her gaze to his harsh profile, noted the rigid line of his jaw. No wonder he’d come here. He was as involved in this case as she was.

She pressed her hand to her throat, still unable to process it all. It was bad enough to think Wayne could be watching her. But a vicious murderer…

“There’s something else I need to tell you,” Natalie said gently.

Dazed, Amanda jerked her attention from Luke. The other police officers rose and began filing out. “I’m sorry. What?”

“Your exhusband was released from jail last week.”

Shock rippled through her. She tightened her hold on Claire. “But…Detective Martinez said he was in jail.”

Natalie made a face. “I’m sorry. There was a computer glitch, and some of the data didn’t get entered on time. Wheeler reported to his parole officer in Maryland yesterday, though, so you shouldn’t have to worry about him.”

“You don’t know Wayne.” He was clever. Cunning. And he knew her habits, her fears. She closed her eyes, felt her skin go cold. Her worst nightmare had just returned.

Natalie stood. “We’ve increased our patrols in your neighborhood, and we’ll have someone monitor the house tonight in case anyone goes near that mailbox. We’ve also told Maryland to alert us if Wheeler breaks his parole.”

It wouldn’t do any good. Wayne had gotten around those measures before. A tight ball of terror knotted her gut.

Natalie shook her hand. “We’ll be in touch.”

“Thank you,” she whispered, knowing there wasn’t much else the police could do. She’d learned that fact back East.

“Claire, honey.” She nudged her daughter gently to wake her. “It’s time to go.”

She roused her daughter, helped her to her feet, then left the room on quivering legs. Behind her, Luke and Natalie began to talk.

So Wayne was out of jail. He would come after her, if he hadn’t already. He’d promised her he would. And if that weren’t enough, she had a killer on her heels, demanding a ring she didn’t have. Hysteria gurgled inside her. Could her life get any worse?

And what on earth should she do? Clutching Claire’s small hand, she exited the building, then squinted in the blinding sun. She had to go home, warn Kendall. But then what? Should she leave town?

Would it do any good? Running from Wayne was hard enough. How could she flee an enemy she didn’t know?

“Mommy,” Claire said, her voice anxious.

Realizing she’d been squeezing Claire’s hand, she relaxed her grip. “Don’t worry. Everything’s okay,” she lied. She knelt, ignored the pavement sizzling her bare knees, and gave her daughter a hug. She buried her face in her hair, inhaled her littlegirl scent, held her small, warm body tight against hers.

But a terrible dread lodged inside her, a wild, desperate fear that seeped like ice through her bones. How could she protect her daughter from a killer? She’d never felt more terrified in her life.

But she had to succeed. Claire’s life was inherhands. She opened her eyes, smoothed the silky strands of hair from her daughter’s cheeks, then eased her grip and rose.

“How about macaroni and cheese for dinner?” she suggested. This was definitely a comfort food night. “And then we’ll watch a movie, maybe Mary Poppins. Would Brownie like that?”

Claire whispered to her bear, then held it up to her ear. Her big blue eyes met hers. “The Little Mermaid, too.”

“Sure, we can do that.” They might as well watch movies all night. No way would she fall asleep knowing a killer was lurking outside. She grabbed Claire’s hand and stepped off the curb.

“Amanda, wait.” She glanced back, surprised to see Luke Montgomery hurrying toward her, his black hair glinting in the sun.

He caught up to her and stopped. He glanced at Claire, then leveled his whiskey-brown eyes at hers. “We need to talk.”

“Sure.” Although she couldn’t imagine what he’d have to say. She motioned to her green Honda Accord across the lot. “I parked in the shade. Why don’t we talk over there?”

“All right.” She started across the lot with Claire, and he slowed his pace to theirs. Without her high heels on, she was more aware of his height, the power in his fluid stride.

She slid a glance at the hard male planes of his face, that sexy, carnal mouth. His eyes captured hers, and a sudden tension sparked between them, igniting a flurry of nerves. She quickly turned away.

They stopped in the patch of shade beside her car. He leaned back against it, folded his muscled arms across his chest. His gaze caught hers again, touching off another rush of adrenaline, and she forced herself to breathe.

“What kind of security system do you have?” he asked.

“On the house?” She frowned, led Claire around the car to the rear passenger door, hoping the distance would quiet her nerves. “We don’t have one, just locks on the windows and doors.”

“That’s what I figured.” He turned to face her, propped his forearm on the roof, drawing her gaze to the black hair marching across his tanned arm. “If that killer’s out there, you need better protection than that.”

Her stomach clenched. “I know.” But it would take time to get a security system installed—time she didn’t have.

“I have a place you can stay,” he said, and she raised her brows. “A house. It’s in a gated community on the north side of town. It has an alarm system, round-the-clock security guards. You’ll be safe there.”

She stared at him over the roof. He was offering her the use of his house? “That’s nice of you, but—”

“I’m not doing it to be nice. Not entirely.” The edge of his mouth quirked up. “You and your daughter need protection. I don’t want any bad publicity right now. If you’re in a safe place, the attacks will stop. It solves both our problems.

“The house is comfortable enough,” he continued. “It has a pool, tennis courts, a home theater. If there’s anything else you need, you can let me know.”

Comfortable enough? He had to be joking. She’d seen pictures of the mansion in the tabloids. It put a sheikh’s desert palace to shame. “Comfort isn’t the issue.”

“Then what is?”

She made an exasperated sound. “Well, for starters, I don’t even know you.”

He lifted one broad shoulder in a shrug. “You’d hardly see me. I spend most of my time in my penthouse. And it’s only until they find this guy.”

“Even so…” She shook her head, opened the car door for Claire. It was impossible, crazy. “What if the tabloids find out? Won’t that make things worse?”

“I doubt they’ll find out. They won’t expect it, and I pay my staff not to talk. Although…” He drummed his fingers on the car roof, and a calculating look entered his eyes. “That’s not a bad idea. We could spin it, play that angle up. Hell, the consortium might even approve.”

“I’m afraid you’ve lost me.”

“If the media thinks we’re engaged, it would give them something to speculate about besides the murder. I’d need you to attend a few events with me, though.”

“Engaged?” Her jaw dropped. He wanted her to pose as his fiancée? “But…that’s ridiculous. No one would believe it. I’m not even your type.”

Amusement crinkled his eyes. “They’ll believe what-ever story we feed them. Besides…” His gaze dipped, making a long, heated slide over her breasts, and her heart fluttered hard. “I think I know my own type.”

“Right.” Her voice came out breathless, and her face turned warm. This was nuts. She had to get a grip and control herself before she totally embarrassed herself. “Except that if I’m in the news, Wayne and that murderer will know where I am for sure.”

“But at least you’ll have better security.”

She couldn’t argue that. She and Claire were vulnerable right now. She’d even dragged her sister into this mess. But moving into Luke’s mansion…

“I appreciate the offer,” she said carefully. “I really do. But I’ll have to think about it.”

His expression turned sharp. “You think I murdered Candace Rothchild? Is that the problem?”

“What? No, of course not.” She ducked, helped Claire into her car seat to avoid his scrutiny. Truthfully, she didn’t know what to think. According to the tabloids, Luke had argued with the murdered woman that night, and they’d had a tumultuous, romantic past. But the police had cleared him of the crime. And she couldn’t imagine him killing anyone, considering how gentle he’d been with her.

But she was a lousy judge of men.

She straightened, flexed her wrist—a stark reminder of just how flawed her judgment was.

Luke’s gaze stayed on hers. “I didn’t do it. I despised the woman, but I didn’t kill her. That’s part of the problem, though. If they reopen the case, I’ll be back in the news. The police might investigate me again.”

“I’m sorry. It’s just…this is pretty sudden. I need to think.” She closed Claire’s door, walked around the car to the driver’s side. Luke straightened and stepped out of her way.

“You’d like the house. You both would,” he said as she climbed inside. She nodded, closed the door, then rolled down the windows to let in air.

He bent down, putting his face just inches from hers. She tried to ignore the virile beard stubble coating his jaw, the disturbing effect of his riveting gaze. “It’s a safe place, Amanda.” His deep voice caressed her nerves. “No one will bother you there.”

Except him. “Thank you. I really will think about it.”

Of course she couldn’t accept the offer. It was beyond ludicrous. She’d already moved in once with a man she’d barely known, and that had been a disaster. She couldn’t compound her mistakes.

She backed out of her parking space and drove to the nearest exit. While she waited for a break in traffic, she glanced in the rearview mirror. Luke stood by a gleaming black Jaguar convertible, watching her with those arresting eyes.

She shivered. No wonder the women flocked to him. Just being near him had a devastating effect on her nerves.

And he was wrong about the media. Even if she agreed to the fake engagement, they would never buy it. She spotted a break in the traffic and gunned the car, anxious to leave Luke behind. She’d seen photos of his dates in the tabloids—gorgeous, voluptuous women, the kind who wore designer clothes, shoes that cost more than most people’s mortgage payment. A-list women who vacationed on exotic beaches and sunbathed on yachts.

Whereas she was a high school history teacher. A single mother with a three-year-old child. And she couldn’t forget that fact.

She sighed, changed lanes, then worked her way through the city streets toward home. That was the mistake she’d made with Wayne. She’d been flattered when he’d asked her out, impressed that a rich, charming man had showered attention on her. She hadn’t cared about his money, but it had been so darned nice to have someone pamper her for once. All her life she’d worked to put food on the table, to keep sanity in their unstable lives. Wayne had made her feel sheltered, cared for. She’d even admired his selfcontrol.

Big mistake. One she couldn’t afford to repeat.

She turned into her sister’s street, pushed thoughts of the past from her mind. She neared the house and slowed the car, and every cell in her body tensed. She inhaled, blew out a long, slow breath, trying to stay calm. But what if Wayne was nearby? What if the killer was here? Her knuckles turned white on the wheel.

She pulled into her driveway and idled the car, hardly able to breathe. She scanned the neighbors’ bushes and yards, watched for movement around her house. Nothing. She pried her hand from the wheel, hit the button on the remote to open the garage door, checked the street in the rearview mirror.

Everything was fine. No one was there.

The garage door swung open, and she drove inside, her pulse flaying her skull. God, she hated this fear, this constant anxiety, the need to listen, watch, run. She cut the engine and set the brake. Still scanning the garage, she unlatched her seat belt and opened her door.

The side door burst open. A masked man lunged toward her, a crowbar in hand.

She shrieked, slammed her door shut and hit the locks. Her heart rioting, her hands fumbling, she jammed the key back into the ignition. But the man leaped around the car and smashed Claire’s window.

Claire wailed. Amanda’s heart went berserk.

She cranked the engine, rammed the gearshift into Reverse, shaking so hard she couldn’t think. She yanked off the brake, slammed the accelerator to the floor. The car rocketed out of the garage backward, shot down the driveway into the street—and crashed.

Amanda screamed, her voice merging with the din of twisting metal and shattering glass. The car jumped forward from the impact, hurling her against the steering wheel, and she gasped at the sharp jab of pain.

The car rocked backward again, then stopped. The sudden silence rang in her ears. Stunned, she looked up. The man in the garage ran off.

She swiveled around in panic. Claire still sat in her car seat, sobbing, clutching her bear, her face streaked with tears. But she was all right. She was all right. They’d both survived.

But who had she hit? She looked out the rear window. A cop emerged from his crumpled car.

She closed her eyes, rested her throbbing forehead against the steering wheel, ignored the blood trickling down her cheek. The cop banged on her door. She gestured for him to wait.

And the horror of it all washed through her. She’d nearly lost Claire. That man had tried to abduct her. She’d nearly failed to protect her child.

She sucked in her breath and knew she no longer had a choice. Whether she knew Luke or not didn’t matter. They were moving into his mansion tonight.