Читать книгу Breakaway - Rochelle Alers - Страница 11

Celia inhaled a lungful of crisp mountain air wafting through the open windows of her late-model Toyota Highlander hybrid. The exterior temperature on the rear-view mirror read seventy-two degrees, sixteen degrees cooler than what it would’ve been if she’d remained in Miami. It was late May, and south Florida afternoon temperatures were already in the mid-nineties.

She’d left Palm Beach later than she’d planned, and hadn’t been able to make up the time because of a storm front that had stalled over the Southeast. There were times when the rain had come down so heavily, traffic along the interstate had been reduced to a crawl. However, the rain had stopped entirely by the time she reached Asheville, North Carolina’s city limits. The blue-gray haze hovering above the Great Smoky Mountains never failed to make her smile.

Why have I stayed away so long? she thought. The house with three bedrooms, two and a half baths built on more than two acres of lush land with panoramic mountain views had been her first big-ticket purchase once she had gained control of her trust. She’d fallen in love with the region while attending Meharry Medical College in Nashville, Tennessee, and each time she returned it was to wind down from the nonstop pace as an emergency-room critical care physician.

She was luckier than most of the students at medical school. She hadn’t been burdened with six-figure student loans because of her family’s wealth. Her great-grandfather, Samuel Claridge Cole, had established ColeDiz International, Ltd. in 1925 and it was now the biggest family-owned agribusiness in the United States.

Celia was always very low-key when it came to her wealth. She’d shared an apartment with another student in college and in medical school, and had driven an affordable car until she’d earned her medical degree. She knew she’d shocked her mother when she revealed that she did her own laundry instead of sending it out and had learned to cook rather than eat in restaurants or order takeout.

Celia and her two brothers had grown up in a household with a live-in housekeeping staff, a full-time chef, drivers and a grounds crew. When her college roommate—who had come from a poor Detroit neighborhood and was on full academic scholarship—called her spoiled and pampered, Celia took offense and refused to talk to her for a week. The stalemate ended when she asked her roommate to show her how to do laundry. Learning how to separate whites and colors segued into shopping for groceries and eventually cooking lessons. After four years, Celia and Rania Norris were not only roommates and friends, but sorority sisters.

Even her fiancé had been completely in the dark when it came to her wealth until she’d purchased an oceanfront mansion from her cousin. Nathaniel Thomas-Mitchell had designed the prize-winning showcase house as a wedding gift for his bride. But after the drowning death of their two-year-old daughter, Nathaniel and Kendra divorced. Eventually they relocated to Chicago, reconciled and remarried. Celia had bought the six-bedroom, seven-bath house, hoping she and Yale would raise their children there, and then grow old together.

She and Yale had had their first serious argument because he’d felt she hadn’t trusted him, and that she’d thought if he’d known of her wealth he would have proposed marriage because of her money. He’d admitted that he would marry her even if she were a pauper. Fortunately, she wasn’t destitute.

She was only a few miles from downtown Waynesville when she decided to stop at a supermarket in a shopping center. Not only did she need to fill the pantry and refrigerator, but she also needed cleaning products. It had been more than a year since she’d been at the house and she hated to imagine what would greet her when she arrived. There was no doubt that the house would be filled with dust and cobwebs, but hopefully nothing more. When she’d locked up the house last summer, she had emptied and cleaned the refrigerator, then unplugged it. She hadn’t had to concern herself with break-ins because she’d installed a security system that was linked directly to the sheriff’s office and fire department. Her nearest neighbor e-mailed her once a week to give her updates on the property.

Maneuvering into a parking space near the entrance to the supermarket, Celia cut off the engine and got out of her SUV. Reaching for a shopping cart, she walked into the market and was met with a rush of cool air from the air-conditioning.

Gavin stood in the supermarket produce aisle, checking the fresh herbs and vegetables in his shopping cart with what was listed on a recipe card for the Thai salad he’d planned to prepare for dinner. The recipe called for two different types of cabbage, but with more than half a dozen varieties on display, he was a little confused.

He’d just moved into a nearby cabin, compliments of the government, and had spent the past two days settling in. Gavin did not mind eating out, but he’d recently begun preparing his own meals in an attempt to eat healthier.

“Excuse me, miss, but can you please tell me the difference in these cabbages?”

Celia stopped filling a plastic bag with peaches. She stared at the tall, solidly built man with stubble on his lean brown jaw. His large dark eyes and strong masculine features made for a strikingly attractive image. He was casually dressed in a white tee, jeans, boots and a well-worn black baseball cap.

“It all depends on what you want to prepare,” she said.

Gavin went completely still when the woman with a profusion of black curls grazing the nape of her neck turned to face him. Her small round face reminded him of a doll with her large dark eyes, pert nose and a temptingly curved mouth. He knew it was impolite to stare, but he couldn’t pull his gaze away from her flawless face, which was the color of brown velvet. Even her voice matched her face. It was low and very sexy.

He blinked. “What did you say?”

Celia smiled, dimples dotting her cheeks like thumb-prints. “I said it all depends on what you want to make.”

“Slaw—it’s a spicy Thai slaw.” Gavin couldn’t believe he was stammering like an awkward adolescent.

“Perhaps you should try the Savoy or Napa cabbage.” Leaning over, she tried reading what was written on Gavin’s index card. “What does your recipe call for?”

Gavin gave her a sheepish grin, revealing a mouth filled with straight white teeth. “I guess I forgot to write down the type of cabbage.”

“You can’t go wrong with the Savoy or Napa.”

“You must be a fabulous cook.”

Her eyebrows flickered. “Why would you say that?”

“You know right off the top of your head which type of cabbage I should use.”

Celia wanted to tell him that if it hadn’t been for Rania she wouldn’t have been able to boil an egg. “It’s just common sense. Asian dishes call for Asian ingredients.”

“Sometimes common sense isn’t that common,” he quipped. “Do you shop here often?”

Eyes narrowing in suspicion, Celia asked, “Not really. Why?” Whenever she’d come to Waynesville for more than a week, she would visit the supermarket to restock her pantry. However, if she’d planned to stay for an extended weekend, then she shopped at the smaller downtown markets and variety stores.

“I need soba noodles, and I’d hoped you would know which aisle they were in.”

“If they do carry them, then you’ll probably find them in the aisle with the other imported products.”

Gavin shook his head. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

Celia wanted to tell the gorgeous stranger that either he truly lacked common sense or he’d embarked on a cooking project that exceeded his culinary expertise. “Good luck with your spicy Thai slaw.”

“Thank you for your invaluable assistance.”

Turning back to her shopping cart, she glanced at its contents. She’d selected seasonal fruits, fresh herbs and vegetables. All she needed was dairy and then she would head home.

She pushed her cart away from the produce section slowly, glancing over her shoulder at the delicious-looking man. Her pulse quickened when she saw him standing motionless, staring at her. Raising her hand, she waved, and then turned down another aisle.

Twenty minutes later, she pushed her cart out to the parking lot and transferred her groceries from the cart to the cargo area of the vehicle. As soon as she sat behind the wheel, her eyelids felt heavy. She’d been on the road more than twelve hours. Her plan to clean the house would have to wait. After all, she had tomorrow and the day after tomorrow and the rest of the summer to do all she needed to do before returning to Miami. She hoped when she did return to Miami that she wouldn’t be the same woman who’d left.

Celia unlocked the door to the house she regarded as her sanctuary, a place to heal. What she didn’t want to do was relive the last time she’d come with Yale. Miraculously, they had been able to coordinate four days of vacation and they’d traveled to North Carolina to unwind. Four days stretched into six when a freak snowstorm blanketed the Blue Ridge and Great Smoky Mountains, and they were trapped inside until the roads were cleared. It would be the last time she and Yale would spend time together in what he’d always referred to as “the mountains.”

She deactivated the security system and walked in, wrinkling her nose when she encountered a buildup of heat and muskiness. Within minutes she flicked on lights and opened windows. Clean mountain air swept into the rooms through the screens, quickly dispelling the stale odor. The imprint from the bottom of her running shoes was clearly outlined in the layer of dust covering the wood floors. Yale had chided her for covering the furniture with dustcovers, but the diligence then now saved her hours of housework.

Her intent to clean the house tomorrow had changed when Celia realized the daunting task she couldn’t put off until the next day. It took four trips to her car to bring in her luggage and groceries. She discovered a spurt of energy when she cleaned the refrigerator, vacuumed the floors, dusted furniture, cleaned the bathrooms and made her bed.

The sun had set behind the mountains, taking with it the warmth of the day when Celia sat on the wraparound deck outside her second-floor bedroom, sipping from a mug of steaming coffee. She’d showered, changed into a pair of cotton pajamas and then added a thick cotton pullover and socks to ward off the cooler night air.

Without the bright lights from hotels, towering office and high-rise apartment buildings the stars in the nighttime sky appeared brighter, closer. Closing her eyes, Celia felt a gentle peace sweep over her body. It was as if she’d come to her own private world where she didn’t want for anything. All she had to do was wake up, eat, drink, walk, read, watch television, go to bed and then get up to do it all over again.

Now she understood why people dropped out of society to become recluses. It took too much effort to make it through each day. She’d been trained to save lives. And yet, she’d stood by and watched a boy take the lives of her patient, fiancé and another doctor before he was shot by another boy. What Celia hadn’t been able to grasp was that all of the gang members were sixteen and younger. Instead of hanging out at the mall, flirting with girls or tinkering with cars, they’d carried guns not to protect themselves, but to savagely and arbitrarily take the lives of other human beings.

Now, Celia, don’t get maudlin. The inner voice, the one she called her voice of reason, pulled her back to center and helped her maintain a modicum of stability. She took another deep swallow of coffee and placed the mug on a low table before settling deeper into the cushioned chaise.

She closed her eyes again and moments later succumbed to a dreamless slumber where there were no screams, bullets or tears.

Gavin felt restlessness akin to an itch he wasn’t able to scratch. He’d prepared the slaw, and the results were even better than he’d expected. He’d also prepared a three-bean salad, grilled chicken and sweet tea.

Leaving the government-registered SUV parked in the garage, he’d set out on foot to familiarize himself with the surrounding countryside. His brother was out there, hiding in the mountains and/or forest from a group of ruthless men and women who were ordered to kill him on sight.

Gavin hadn’t seen or spoken to his brother in more than two years. Raymond Prentice had been so deep undercover that if he hadn’t recognized his eyes, Gavin wouldn’t have known who he was. Ray could change his appearance by losing or gaining copious amounts of weight. He would shave his head, grow his hair, beard and affect different accents. Although the wounded gun-shop owner had given law enforcement officials an accurate description of Raymond Prentice, the technicians at the Bureau had subtly altered the mug shot to disguise the undercover agent’s features.

Born Orlando Wells, he’d become Gavin’s foster brother when Gavin’s mother took him in after he’d been placed in her care by a fellow social worker. Orlando didn’t remember his drug-addicted parents, and at nine hadn’t shed a tear when told of their deaths from an overdose of crack cocaine. Malvina Faulkner legally adopted Orlando and after college and a stint as a Navy SEAL, he was recruited by the ATF. Orlando Wells Faulkner had become Raymond Prentice and anyone they wanted him to be.

His younger brother had always been a risk taker, and if Orlando survived this undercover mission, Gavin would do everything within his power to convince him to leave the ATF. Their mother’s greatest fear was that after burying her husband, who’d died in the line of duty, she would also bury one or both of her sons. The elder Faulkner, a former Vietnam War Green Beret, joined the Bureau as an undercover agent. He’d infiltrated a radical group in the early 1980s, but lost his life during a confrontation between group members and the police.

Gavin continued walking along the shoulder of a narrow two-lane road. He’d estimated he’d walked half a mile and a total of eight cars had passed going in either direction. The population of Waynesville was about ten thousand, and that meant most long-time residents were familiar with one another. However, during the summer the number of tourists visiting the mountain region swelled the numbers appreciably.

Being on the run during the summer months and attempting to hide out in a tourist area was advantageous for the undercover agent, but would prove to be the opposite for Gavin because it would make his search more difficult.

His orders dictated that he work alone, without the assistance of regional agents or local law enforcement. The members of the joint task force did not want anything or anyone to compromise their attempt to eradicate a gun-trafficking network spanning more than twenty states.

Gavin knew what lay ahead was a daunting task, but he had to cover acres of virgin forests, mountain caves and miles of streams to rescue the FBI’s Most Wanted before the gun traffickers found him.