Читать книгу Most Wanted Woman - Maggie Price - Страница 8

“C’mon, Regan. Let’s you ’n me go upstairs to your place ’n have some fun.”

“Not interested.” Regan stood at the tavern’s front door, staring up into Seamus O’Toole’s bloodshot eyes. The beefy Dallas used-car dealership owner’s breath smelled like a brewery.

He leaned in. “There’s lots of women mighty glad they said yes to old Seamus.”

“Not interested, Mr. O’Toole. At all.”

When Regan shifted to open the door, he lunged, thrusting a finger in her face. “Whas’ wrong with you? Don’cha like men? You one of them flamin’…”

As quick as a snake, her hand lashed out, grabbed his outstretched thumb, and forced it back into his wrist.

Howling, O’Toole dropped to his knees.

Behind her, Regan heard the kitchen door swing open.

“Need some help?”

Keeping a grip on O’Toole’s thumb, she glanced across her shoulder. Howie Lyons stood with the door propped open, a metal mop bucket behind him. After six months of working together, Truelove’s night cook knew Regan could hold her own with an obnoxious drunk.

“I’ve got this covered.” She looked down at O’Toole. His face was beet-red, his forehead beaded with sweat. “I said no. Got it?”

“Yeah. Sweet Jesus, I hear ya.”

She let go of his thumb and stepped back two paces.

With his knees creaking in protest, he lurched to his feet. “Ya’ crazy broad! You tried ta’ break my thumb.”

“If I intended to break it, you’d need a cast right now.” She didn’t add that due to her paramedic training, she could also apply that cast. “Did you drive or walk tonight, Mr. O’Toole?”

“Can’t ’member,” he mumbled while massaging his bruised thumb.

Regan shoved the door open. A gleaming silver Beemer sporting a dealer’s tag sat in the parking lot beneath one of the mercury vapor lamps.

“You drove, but you’re walking home.” She held out a hand. “Give me your keys. I’ll put them behind the bar. You can pick the car up when you’re sober, like you did last week.”

When he continued glaring at her, she wiggled her fingers. “Keys. You try to drive, you could wind up in a cell.”

“Maybe.” Wobbling, he dug into a pocket of his khakis. Keys jangled as he slapped them into her palm. “Somebody oughta do something ’bout man-hatin’ women,” he sneered as he lurched out the door.

“Idiot,” Regan said under her breath. After setting the lock, she wove her way around the tables, then stepped behind the bar. She dropped O’Toole’s keys inside a drawer, then hesitated.

Still wearing his grease-smeared apron over his black T-shirt and jeans, Howie gave her a considering look while overturning chairs onto the tables on the far side of the dance floor. “Something wrong?”

“What if that moron staggers in front of a car and gets mowed down?”

“You nearly ripped off O’Toole’s thumb. Now you’re worried about him stepping in front of a car?”

“I’m thinking about Etta. If O’Toole gets hurt, Truelove’s could get sued because he got drunk here.”

“Right,” Howie said. “When I leave I’ll drive the route to his house. Make sure he hasn’t stumbled and hit his head.”

“Thanks.”

Since she had already washed the pitchers and glasses, re-stocked the cooler, wiped down the bar and locked the night’s receipts in the safe, Regan was free to head upstairs. Instead, she began overturning chairs onto the tables.

“You don’t have to do that,” Howie reminded her. “My job.”

“I’ve got time,” she said, hefting another chair.

Snagging an oversize broom, he began sweeping up peanut shells. “I guess neither of us have someone waitin’ at home,” he commented, his voice now harsh and bitter. “Regan, you ever know anyone who claimed to have found religion? Someone who went off the deep end, preaching fire and brimstone?”

“No.” Etta had told her she suspected the night cook’s motive for taking on the tavern’s janitorial duties after his wife left him was to delay going home to an empty apartment.

“It’s hard defending yourself when someone gets certain ideas into their head.” Howie shook his head. “There’s battles a person just can’t win.”

Regan pulled her bottom lip between her teeth. She wasn’t trying to win a battle. She was trying to stay hidden.

After a few minutes of their working in silence, Howie raised a shoulder as he wielded the broom. “I expect havin’ Josh McCall in town’ll make Etta happy, being they’re close.”

Regan felt another stab of unease as she pictured McCall sitting at the bar, watching her just a bit too closely with those dark eyes. Eyes that had made her shiver as she fought their hypnotic pull. She had become so accustomed to the numb bleakness inside her that feeling even a slight attraction to any man unnerved her.

With all the chairs overturned, she walked to the jukebox, its light painting her arm gold as she reached to flip off the power. “Do you know McCall?”

“Sure. His family’s been coming to Sundown long as I can remember. Josh and Etta’s oldest boy were forever getting into mischief.” Howie nudged the mop bucket toward a corner. “Those two caught hell one summer when they raided the Camp Fire Girls overnight jamboree.” He chuckled as he put his back into mopping. “Now Etta’s oldest is a minister and Josh is a cop. Who’d have thought?”

“I figured out the cop part on my own,” Regan muttered.

“What’d you say?”

“Nothing.” She slid the key to her apartment out of her jeans pocket. “I’m going upstairs. Lock up when you leave.”

“Will do.”

Giving the area a last check, she headed toward a door on the opposite side of the barroom. After dealing with the lock, she reached in and flipped on the light. The narrow staircase was as straight as a ruler, with no shadowy nooks or crannies in which someone could hide.

At the top of the stairs she paused, making sure the dead bolt she’d installed on the door was still latched. A study of the door-jamb revealed no notches or pry marks. Everything appeared undisturbed.

Even so, she felt a twinge of apprehension as the lock snicked open. She would continue to feel uneasy until she checked the French doors leading to the balcony that spanned the rear of the building.

As she stepped inside what had been her safe haven for six months, the familiar sense of grief and loneliness hit her. Memories flashed toward dangerous places as her mind formed a picture of Steven’s house in New Orleans, filled with antiques and furniture covered in rich fabrics. It had been a home where gleaming tables were crammed with framed photographs. Where rare old books filled floor-to-ceiling shelves and expertly lit paintings hung on silk-covered walls.

She had planned to live the rest of her life in that house with the man she loved. Raise their children and grow old.

Her dream had ended over a year ago when she found Steven dead from what everyone believed was suicide. Weeks later, after another man died on her account, she’d learned the truth.

Since the moment I met you, you’ve disappointed me, cher. I shared that disappointment with your fiancé. And your partner. How many more times are you going to disappoint me?

Because Detective Payne Creath’s voice played all too clearly in her ears, because the words filled her with guilt and remorse she would never be free of, she wrenched her thoughts from the past. She had to think about now. Make sure she was safe for another night.

Her gaze swept the small living area, skimming across the orange-and-brown plaid sofa, matching chair and watermarked coffee table Etta had scored at a garage sale. The latest copy of the Sundown Sentinel lay on the table at the same angle she’d left it beside the vase of daisies that had just started to fade. She stepped into the kitchenette tucked in an alcove. Her coffee mug still sat on the cork coaster placed exactly two inches from the edge of the chipped sink.

She headed across the living room, noting the lamp she’d left on in the bedroom still beamed light through the doorway. The pair of mullioned French doors were locked, with no discernible notches or pry marks on the jamb. The glass panes covered by sheer white curtains presented a possible safety hazard. Still, she considered the doors a necessity since they afforded an alternate escape route. And the balcony faced the lake, providing a peaceful spot on her evenings off to sit and watch the dazzling yellow-and-red sunsets over the water.

She clenched her fingers as she stepped into the bedroom. The twin-size brass bed looked tidy and inviting with its pink chenille spread. The only thing lying on the spread was her plump throw pillow.

The closet door stood open. She habitually left it that way to eliminate a hiding spot. The few clothes she owned hung as she’d left them. Her suitcase sat on the closet floor, its lid open for quick packing.

Although it increased her sense of security, Regan knew her nightly check of doorjambs and locks was futile. Creath had once disabled the high-tech alarm on her apartment. She’d known he’d been inside solely because of the peppermint candies he left strewn across her bed.

The cop who had methodically stalked her, killed because of her, then set her up to take the fall for Steven’s murder had wanted her to know how effortlessly he could get to her.

Her gaze went to her reflection in the wavy-surfaced mirror hanging over the vanity painted a garish yellow. Sometimes when she looked in the mirror she still got a jolt. The dark-haired woman she saw wasn’t her, couldn’t possibly be Susan Kincaid, who had spent six years saving lives and wearing her auburn hair in a short cap of curls. Now, her hair was midnight black and board straight, and belonged to a bartender named Regan Ford. But the nightmares that still woke her up in an icy, terrified sweat were Susan’s.

She swallowed back a sudden rush of tears. She was so tired—physically drained, emotionally exhausted, sick of feeling out of control.

Because she had learned the uselessness of tears, she scrubbed a hand over her eyes, grabbed her laptop off the rocking chair angled in one corner, then returned to the living room. Nudging the newspaper aside, she plugged the computer into the phone jack. That done, she toed off her shoes, then settled onto the couch. While the computer booted up, she rested her head against the wall. Was it sick to consider celebrating, since Creath hadn’t found her after an entire year?

Not yet, anyway.

Listening to the modem connect to the Internet, her thoughts centered on Dan Langley, the private investigator who was her one link to the life she’d left behind. Not just for safety’s sake, but her own peace of mind, she’d had to ensure Creath hadn’t followed her when she disappeared. No matter how sly and patient the monster inside him, he couldn’t personally track her if he stayed on the job.

Langley had no idea where she was or what names she used. All he had was her e-mail address to which he had sent messages for the past year to let her know Creath was still in New Orleans.

Regan accessed her e-mail account, saw she had no message from Langley. That meant the P.I. still had Creath in his sights.

Even as relief rolled over her, a sharp rap on the French doors brought her chin up. Through the sheer curtains she saw a man’s shadowy form on the balcony beyond. He stood just outside the light fixture’s pool of illumination. Purposely?

Panic fizzed through her. Had Creath slipped out of New Orleans without Langley knowing? Somehow found her? Was it Creath waiting for her on the other side of the door?

Regan pressed a hand between her breasts to hold in her frantic heart while she fought a short, ferocious battle to pull herself together. Creath’s style wasn’t to announce himself. He would slide into the apartment like smoke, and grab her before she knew he was there.

Closing her laptop, she rose. Because she believed in evening the odds, she moved into the kitchenette and pulled a knife out of a drawer. Her breath shallowed as she neared the door. Fingers clenched on the knife’s hilt, she used her free hand to edge back one side of the sheers.

When she saw Josh McCall, the flood of adrenaline in her veins became a full-blown tsunami. In the dim light, the prominent planes of his stubbled face looked sharp as glass. The cop eyeing her through the door’s pane in some ways presented as great a danger to her as Creath.

She lowered her gaze to the pie carrier in his hand. Since he’d planned to drop by Etta’s after he left the tavern, Regan knew exactly what had happened. It was bad enough that Etta had been on her injured foot long enough to bake pies, but she was ferrying them via cop.

Having no choice, Regan undid the dead bolt, opened the door a few inches. “You moonlighting as Etta’s errand boy?” she asked smoothly.

His smile flashed charmingly. “Making deliveries gets you access into places you might not be otherwise invited to.”

Before she could react, he’d nudged a shoulder against the door, forcing her to take a step back. A slick move, she thought as he stepped past her. She narrowed her eyes. “Uninvited places like my home, you mean.”

“Exactly.” His gaze dropped to her hand. “You’re as pasty as Etta’s biscuit dough and that’s one hell of a grip you’ve got on that knife. Something wrong?”

You. “Yes, you pounded on my door at one o’clock in the morning.” When she reached for the pie, he shifted.

“If you try to juggle the pie and that knife, you might cut yourself,” he said as he headed to the kitchenette. “Wouldn’t want that.”

Teeth clenched, she remained at the open door, struggling for calm. “If anyone gets cut, it won’t be me.”

He set the pie on the counter, then turned, studying her with unconcealed interest. “You’re a tough customer, Ms. Ford.”

She felt her throat tighten. “I didn’t tell you my last name.”

“That’s right, you didn’t. I asked Etta.”

“Why?”

His gaze swept the room before returning to her. “You wouldn’t tell me.”

Sweat pooled on her palm against the knife’s handle. “You didn’t ask.”

“True.” He raised a dark brow. “Aren’t you going to offer me a piece of pie?”

“Etta never bakes just one of something. I’m sure you’ve already had your fill.”

“You’d make a good detective, Ms. Ford.”

“Like you?”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “I didn’t tell you my profession.”

“Howie mentioned it.”

He angled his chin. “You asked Howie about me?”

“No, he commented you used to be a wild kid who wound up a cop.” Regan knew she had to act with confidence or blow her cover. So, she forced her mouth into a slight upward curve. “He mentioned something about you and Etta’s son raiding a Camp Fire Girls jamboree.”

Josh stroked a finger along his stubbled jaw. “Now there’s a great memory. During the raid I stole a kiss from Mary Beth Powers. That was the first time I’d kissed a girl and it was a moving experience. For my part in the raid, Chief Decker made me pick up trash along Sundown’s roadsides for a week.” He wiggled his dark brows. “After I served my sentence, I went back and kissed Mary Beth again.”

The wicked amusement in his eyes sent the primitive sensation Regan had felt before seeping over her, heating her flesh and making her stomach jitter.

“Doesn’t sound like you’re a man who learns from his mistakes,” she said, hoping the nerves jumping inside her didn’t sound in her voice.

His finger shifted from his jaw to the thin scar on the side of his neck. “If I wasn’t, I’d be long dead.” He wandered to the sofa, glanced down at her laptop, the fading daisies. “I’m worried that Etta doesn’t learn from the past.”

“How so?”

His gaze slowly lifted, locked with hers. “She takes in strays. That kitten she has? Etta probably hasn’t had her checked for rabies.”

Knowing he was talking about more than just the kitten had Regan’s stomach burning like acid. “One look at Anthracite and you can tell she’s okay.”

He moved to her bedroom door, glanced in before looking back at her. “What about you, Regan Ford?”

“I don’t have rabies.”

His gaze traveled down, all the way to her bare feet, then back up again. “You do look good on the surface.”

His intimate scrutiny seared Regan like a blast, an almost palpable force that made her knees weak. God, she had to get away from him.

Clenching her fingers on the knob, she jerked the door open wider. “It’s late, McCall, and I want to go to bed.”

He stepped to her, curled a finger under her chin and nudged it up. “That an invitation?” he murmured.

“For you to leave.” She slapped his hand away while her pulse thrummed. He was all but standing on top of her. Close enough that she could smell him. No cologne, just soap—something that brought the woods to mind one moment and dark, intimate nights the next.

She didn’t want to feel. It was safer that way, easier; if she hadn’t been numb over the past year she couldn’t have survived. Two men were dead because of her. Their murders were an internal wound she didn’t dare touch because it was still bleeding. She wanted to keep the bleak ice inside her frozen.

She took a step back from the man whose hot gaze threatened to crack that ice. “Since you’re apparently Etta’s self-designated watchdog, you might want to stick your nose in an aspect of her life where she is at risk.”

“That would be?”

“Her health. She baked tonight, meaning she spent a lot of time on her feet, which is exactly what she shouldn’t be doing. She broke a bone, she has to keep her weight off her foot as much as possible or complications could set in.”

His eyes were now crimped with concern. “What sort of complications?”

“Are you aware she’s a diabetic?”

“Yeah. Has been since I’ve known her.”

“A diabetic’s immune system isn’t top-notch. That means slower healing. Possible infections.” Regan paused when she heard the emotion begin to break through her voice. She owed everything to the woman who’d given her a job, a place to live. To hide. “I try to get Etta to follow the doctor’s orders, but she’s stubborn.”

His gaze narrowed on her face and Regan could swear she felt it penetrate through her. “You sound like you know a lot about medicine.”

She clenched her fingers tighter on the knife. “I’m just repeating what Doc Zink told me.”

“I’ll talk to Etta tomorrow. Try to get her to behave.”

“Good.”

He stepped out on the balcony. Even as he turned back toward the door, Regan shut it and shot the dead bolt into place.

She walked to the kitchenette, laid the knife on the counter and waited. When she heard his footsteps clatter down the outside staircase, a shiver ran through her, like icy fingers slicking her flesh.

He was curious about her, too damn curious. Like any cop, Josh McCall had numerous law enforcement networks available. Her Regan Ford identity could pass a cursory check, but what if he dug deeper? Standing there, she could almost feel the cold steel of handcuffs lock onto her wrists.

Panic clawed at the base of her throat. It would take mere minutes to cram her clothes into her suitcase, grab her running money and drive away from Sundown.

And go where? a voice inside her asked. Drift through a blur of towns and cities as she’d done when she first went on the run, forever looking over her shoulder to see if Creath was there?

Allowing herself a moment of despair, she dropped her head into her hands. Her life might as well have a sign posted: Danger Behind. Danger Ahead. What the hell should she do? Just the thought of taking off again, of giving up the tenuous life she’d begun in Sundown made her feel physically ill.

So, she would stay, at least for a while. Until she had time to think. To work out a plan.

She looked back at the French doors. It hadn’t been just a cop she feared who’d just walked out of them but the man whose warm touch she could still feel against her flesh. She thought her sensuality had died with Steven, but Josh McCall had proven her wrong.

A vivid premonition of disaster swept over her. “Stay away from me, McCall,” she said, her voice a thready whisper. “Just stay away.”

Payne Creath sat alone in the Homicide detail’s dim squad room amid a maze of steel desks the color of dirty putty. The air carried a stale edge of tobacco. If he concentrated, he could hear the raucous sounds of the French Quarter seeping in through the building’s grubby windows. The computer monitor holding his attention flooded his sharp-angled face with an eerie unnatural hue as his agile fingers worked the keyboard.

He possessed an innate ability to hunt. Combined with a fixed persistence, he could locate anything and anyone, no matter how long it took.

He would find her—it was fated.

Susan. She had smooth skin and liquid brown eyes, small breasts and a slender waist. From his first glimpse of her, he had loved the look of her, the sound of her, the scent. She’d been his one magic person. Only her. He had dealt with his rivals. All of them. That she’d run from him, left him, had been a dagger to the heart. As quick as that, love turned to hate. One year later, his wound still oozed blood.

Was she feeling safe, burrowed in her hiding place? Had she fooled herself into thinking he would fail to keep his promise to share his disappointment with her in the worst way imaginable? Would she feel a shiver race beneath that smooth skin if she knew how much the passage of time had honed his resolve to find her?

“Just got us a homicide call. Gonna be a long night.”

Looking up, Creath met the gaze of the short, stocky man who strode into the squad room, cell phone in hand. Creath had no friends on the police force, just acquaintances. His partner was no exception.

He dipped a hand into the plastic bag on his desk, pulled out a peppermint while his mouth formed the polished smile that pulled people in, making them believe anything he said. “What’d we do, cher, snag us a mass murder?”

“Triple. Two male college tourists and a pimp named Lo-Vell. Lots of blood.”

Creath unwrapped the peppermint. “Well, hell, guess we’ll have to put off eating breakfast.”

“Guess so. I’ll get the car, pick you up out front.”

Creath began shutting down the computer, feeling a tic of regret over interrupting the night’s search. She was smart—not once since she’d run had she used her real name, nor did he think she would. Numbers were something else. The passage of time increased the likelihood she would let down her guard. It was easier to slip back into using one’s real date of birth, maybe risk using her actual social security number a time or two. So, he watched. If any cop radioed in a check to the National Crime Information Center computer, or checked an ID or made any other type of documented contact with a female matching her description who used her real date of birth or social security number, his off-line search would turn it up.

His hunt didn’t stop with law enforcement. Using his home computer, he had hacked into the database of hospitals and ambulance services, searching for new hires. She’d have to work. By now, the amount of money she could make in her chosen profession might outweigh the peril of exposure.

And if anyone—from cop to job recruiter—ran her prints, they’d get a hit on the murder warrant.

Then she’d be his.

He would see she paid for rejecting him. For the pain she’d caused him. He would take pleasure in being the ultimate victor in this struggle.

He felt the power rise inside him as the computer clicked off and the monitor’s single eye went black. The image of him locking handcuffs around her delicate wrists crouched darkly in his brain. For him, it would be the ultimate twisting of the knife to escort her to prison, knowing she’d be spending the rest of her life locked in a cell.

Thinking of him.