Hey Big Spender

by Gemma Halliday

  She shook her head. "One of the VIPs said he wanted to see the soundstage, so I was going to take him on a tour. But as soon as we got there, someone attacked me." The tears spilled down her cheeks. "I tried to fight back—you know, I have been taking cardio kickboxing lately—but I only got in one good kick before he hit me over the head with a mixing bowl." Her hand went to the side of her head, where I could just make out a knot forming.

  "Just a wild guess, but that VIP wouldn't happen to be a Hank Gambia, would it?"

  She blinked at me. "Yes. How did you know?"

  I knew the Hammerhead was behind all of this! When I got my hands on that guy…

  LeAnna snorted and moaned loudly, garnering our attention.

  Britton propped herself against the pillows right next to LeAnna. She crossed her arms over her chest, the frown on her face looking almost clown-like with the reddened area around her lips. "Before we remove your tape," she whispered to LeAnna, "I want you to know how hard we worked to figure out what happened to you. Tessie and I totally worried our asses off. I also want you to know that I'm like in absolutely no mood for any more lies. Whatever comes out of your mouth had better be the God's honest truth. Do you understand?"

  I looked over at LeAnna as she nodded slowly, her downcast gaze filled with shame. With my own eyes adjusting to the lighting, I was able to see her more clearly. Her hair lay in greasy ringlets. What was left of her eye makeup was smeared across her eyes or trailed into long streaks, more resembling war paint than beauty enhancement. Her tiny excuse for a dress was torn, stained, and wrinkled beyond any reparation. This would make for the most epic walk of shame ever known to womankind. Where were the reporters when you really needed them?

  I yanked the tape off of her mouth, trying not to enjoy the yelp of pain it provoked. At least not too much. Britton quickly freed LeAnna's hands while I worked on her ankles.

  Tears spilled down LeAnna's face, bringing with them gasping sobs. "We have to get out of here. He's going to kill me!" she cried.

  Britton slapped a hand over her mouth, shushing her. "Who?"

  LeAnna pushed her hand away and continued in a more hushed tone. "This whole thing is about the baby." She rubbed a few fingers over her belly. "But there never was one," she bawled, emitting a few more gut-wrenching cries.

  Britton gasped. "Are you saying you're not pregnant?"

  LeAnna shook her head. "No. I just wanted Gerald to get rid of the effing prenup. I deserve a cut of his money, damn it!"

  I shushed her, glancing over my shoulder at the door to the cabin. I wasn't sure how long we'd been there or how nearby whoever had tied us up was. Or, more importantly, when he'd come back.

  "You lied to me!" Britton said, clearly hurt.

  "I'm telling you I worked hard for that money!" LeAnna countered.

  Ew. I so did not want to know how.

  "So you lied to your husband too," I said.

  She nodded. "But, you see, I had to! I needed the money to leave him. To be with the man I love."

  "Who is?" I asked.

  But LeAnna ignored me, gaining momentum on her way to hysteria. "But I never expected he'd react this way to the thought of a baby. I thought he'd be happy, you know? But as soon as he found out about it, he completely flipped. Like, freaked out!"

  "Then he picked you up from the Midnight club and has had you tied up here," I finished for her.

  She blinked at me. "How did you know about the club?"

  "Never mind that." I glanced at the door again. "Look, we need to get out of here."

  LeAnna nodded. "I thought I could talk some sense into him. But he is freaking out. If he'd just listen to me about the baby being fake, maybe we could work this whole thing out, and he'd whisk me away to Belize just like he promised he would."

  As our surroundings became more and more clear, I could make out details of the room, and I realized we weren't just in a boat…we were on a yacht. A yacht where, if I wasn't mistaken, an authentic Gustav Klimt was hanging on the wall. I sucked in a breath as I made out the image of a dark-haired woman surrounded by a mosaic of orange and yellow designs painted in oil on canvas. It had to be Jerry's. Apparently there had been some serious parking in Daddy's garage after all.

  Britton must have noticed too, as she said, "Wait, are we on Jerry's yacht? Ohmigod, you're telling me that you're in love with your stepson? Hashtag gross, LeAnna!"

  LeAnna gave Britton a funny look. "What? No. God, I wouldn't give a loser like Jerry the time of day."

  "Well then, who are we talking about?" I asked, totally confused now.

  From the inky darkness of the staircase, a man replied, "She's talking about me."

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  I squinted to make out the figure at the bottom of the stairs. His face was in shadows, but he was at least a head too short to be Jerry. And the voice was wrong. Too high.

  He took a step toward us, and I felt my breath catch in my throat as I spied a distinct pair of stark white, never actually seen a sports arena sneakers. Chef Dubois!

  LeAnna scrambled into a kneeling position on the bed, hand waving frantically in front of her. "Please, don't kill me, Bastien. I love you."

  I kinda doubted that, but I could believe that LeAnna loved his money and the fame that would have gone along with being Mrs. Chef Dubois.

  Dubois slowly stepped into the room, his eyes going from me to Britton to LeAnna, all of whom he clearly expected to be tied up when he arrived. From the frown on his face, I could tell he wasn't pleased. But my attention was riveted to the long, thin chef's knife he held in his hands. If he'd looked menacing on his kitchen set with a meat cleaver, he looked downright deadly now.

  "Just listen to me, Bastien," LeAnna said. "The baby isn't real. Honestly, I made it all up to trick Gerald." She turned her pleading look on Britton and me. "Tell him!"

  I nodded. "It's true. She's a total liar. No baby."

  Britton nodded emphatically beside me.

  Dubois scoffed. "I'm not going to kill you because of du bebe," he said through his heavy accent.

  I breathed a sigh of relief.

  LeAnna released one too. "I knew you loved me. I'll make you so happy." She crawled seductively toward the end of the bed, her mannerisms the only thing even remotely sexy in her bedraggled state.

  But Dubois held the knife out in front of him menacingly to hold her back. "Non, I kill you because you ruin all of my plans!"

  She flopped onto her belly. "What?"

  Britton whimpered beside me, clutching my arm.

  My eyes darted from the long blade to the small door behind him. It was possible that with his attention on LeAnna, I could make a run for the doorway before he could react. But there was no way I could get both Britton and myself out of there. And there was no way I was leaving her. Instead, I stalled for time.

  "What plans?" I asked.

  Dubois spun his attention toward me, and I think I did a whimper of my own at the crazed look in his eyes. "And you!"

  I gulped. "Me?"

  "So nosey. You and your bimbo friend here always sticking noses where they no belong. Why couldn't you mind your own business, eh?"

  "Sorry?" I said, though it came out as a wavering question.

  The corner of his mouth hitched upward. "Oh, you will be."

  Britton sucked in a breath beside me.

  I cleared my throat, trying to be brave for the both of us. "You don't have to do this," I reasoned. "You haven't harmed anyone yet. You can let us go, and everything will be fine."

  "Ha!" he cackled. "You really are a dumb blonde, aren't you?"

  I blinked at him, his meaning slowly sinking in. "Wait, you have harmed someone already, haven't you?"

  Dubois didn't answer but instead smiled widely at me as he twisted his knife back and forth in his hand.

  "You killed Gerald Taylor," I whispered.

  LeAnna sucked in a breath. "What? No!"

  "Oh, yes," he hissed, turning his attention back to her. "That
stupid old man wasn't going to ruin everything."

  "How?" I asked, stalling again as I scanned the room for anything that we could possibly use as a weapon against the deranged Frenchman. Pillows, a cushion on a window seat, a pile of blankets on the floor. I cursed the plush, cozy room.

  "How?" he repeated. Then he scoffed again. "As if it was hard. Non." He shook his head. "The old man—so predictable. Always drink too much. So I put on a disguise I take from the local—how you say?—sporting good store, and I wait. Then…" He made a stabbing motion with the knife and shrugged his shoulders. "Simple, non?"

  I felt my stomach clench. The man didn't just play a hotheaded chef on TV. He really was nuts. The way he talked about stabbing Gerald as if he were slicing a pork chop made me physically ill. I felt Britton shiver beside me as well.

  "But why use LeAnna's cuticle scissors?" I asked.

  That creepy grin broke out across his face again. "Why not? Kill two birds with the same stone, as you say."

  "Bastien?" LeAnna cried, tears filling her eyes. "How could you?"

  "How?" he asked. He laughed again then held his free hand up to the light, attempting to inspect his nails. "The camera, it films my hands." He waggled his fingers. "All de times, it zooms on these amazing creators." He fluttered them in our faces as if to demonstrate the greatness contained within them then continued, "I had just finished having the sexy with LeAnna in her boudoir back home in Napa."

  I gagged a little at the thought.

  "My cuticles were incontrollable, so I borrow the scissors from my mon chérie, LeAnna." He snapped his fingers. "Voila! The perfect murder weapon, complete with her prints."

  LeAnna sobbed into her hands. "You told me you loved me," LeAnna drew out in an annoyingly long whine. "How can you throw months of mind-blowing sex out the window?"

  I was willing to bet it was more along the lines of mind-numbing. I scooted a little closer to Britton as Dubois's attention focused on LeAnna.

  "Ah, the fantasies I had…" The corners of his lips curled into a smile.

  "Really?" LeAnna asked hopefully.

  "Fantasies of shutting zat big mouth of yours for good!" He flapped his hand like a blabbing mouth, his lips mocking along. "Blah, blah, blah. You cannot even shush during le sexe."

  If I didn't fear dying at his hand, I'd shake it. I stifled a derisive snort with a cough.

  "What?" LeAnna gasped. She wilted into a sitting position. "Are…are you saying you never loved me?"

  Dubois threw his head back and laughed maniacally enough to audition as a cartoon villain. "You are a stupid woman, no?"

  Yes, I almost blurted.

  He took a step forward and wound one of her greasy locks around his finger for a moment then wiped that hand on the comforter. "You were a means to the end. A way to keep everyone happy and keeping their noses out of my family's business."

  "Your family…" I said, the puzzle pieces starting to fall into place. "You mean, the Gambia family?"

  Dubois swung his attention—and the tip of his knife!—my direction. "See, you never learn. You asking the questions again!"

  I swallowed hard. "Sorry," I squeaked out.

  "I don't get it. All you did was buy wine," LeAnna said, a crease of confusion trying to push through her Botoxed forehead.

  "Oui. Lots of wine. The grande amount of wine ordered was blanchiment d'argent." He cast a gaze between Britton, LeAnna, and me. "How you say 'washing of the monies'?"

  "Money laundering," Britton breathed beside me.

  "And Mr. Taylor was involved," I mused out.

  He raised one perfectly waxed eyebrow at me. "Involved? It was his idea!"

  "Liar!" LeAnna cried from the pillows, where she'd retreated again. "I know my Gerald had nothing to do with it. He would have told me. He told me everything!"

  "Not everything," I couldn't help mumbling.

  LeAnna turned on me. "What are you talking about?"

  "Your scheme never would have worked, LeAnna," I told her, taking just an eensy-weensy bit of pleasure in it. "Gerald had just found out from his doctor that he couldn't have any more children. He was sterile."

  "What?" Anger and confusion twisted her already distorted appearance.

  Dubois laughed out loud. "No wonder that when this one started talking about babies," he said, waving the knife blade in LeAnna's direction, "Monsieur Taylor started asking questions about me."

  "Too many of them," I surmised. "So you killed him."

  He slowly took a step toward me, his features becoming clearer in the filtered moonlight. I briefly contemplated retreating, but there was precious little space for moving in the small cabin. His eyes narrowed on me, his nose nearly touching mine. "Oui," he shouted, his breath reeking of stale cigarettes and booze. He raised the knife in the air then slashed downward, imbedding it in the mattress between Britton and me. "Il meurt!"

  It didn't take a French scholar to figure out what he said with his animated motion. Panic ripped through me, much like the knife had the bed, with the realization of what his confession meant.

  He wasn't planning to let any of us leave the boat alive.

  I sucked in shallow breaths as I watched Dubois slowly pull the blade from the mattress and advance on me. I bit my lip, eyes frantically searching for anything I could use to fend off his attack.

  His eyes were wide, pupils dilated as if on some sort of drug-induced high. His usually coiffed hair stood out in tufts on the side, his nostrils flaring as he breathed hard.

  Then I heard it. The sound of a motor in the distance. I felt a small lift of hope in my chest. Maybe someone was coming to save us!

  Dubois must have heard it too, as he paused, cocking his head to the side. Then a slow smile snaked across his features. "I hear a moteur boat approaching. Bien."

  I felt that hope die a quick death. Dubois was expecting someone.

  "Sadly, this is the end of our conversation. Mes amis will be escorting you elsewhere to clean up this mess." He waved a dismissive hand toward us as though we were merely fat to be trimmed off his fine steak.

  I slid toward the edge of the bed. God only knew how many men were on that boat. While the crazy guy with a knife was bad, more crazy mobsters with guns would be worse. I glanced toward the floor, and in my peripheral vision I spied the lamp I'd knocked over earlier. I wasn't sure it was exactly a match for a knife, but it was the best shot I had.

  I steeled my spine, ready to dive for it if he even flinched.

  "Are you too good to bloody your own hands?" I taunted, hoping to catch him off guard.

  "You speak grand for a petit one." He shifted his weight, his fingers clenching around his weapon. He took one step toward me…

  And I dove for the lamp.

  I grabbed it in both hands, lifting the heavy brass thing above my head just in time to meet his blade with a resounding clang. When he drew back to attack again, I swung toward him, the lamp catching his shins with a resounding crack.

  He grunted, doubling over.

  Britton took the opportunity to spring into action, grabbing one of her heels and clubbing at his temple. Dubois crumpled to his knees.

  LeAnna reached off the bed, rapidly girly-slapping at his shoulder repeatedly with both hands. But with one strong sweep, he backhanded her right off of the bed like a rag doll.

  Britton screeched as he rose up from the floor. He grabbed her by the hair and tossed her across the room, where her head hit the edge of the bed with a loud thud.

  "Britt!" I yelled, taking a step toward her.

  One that was cut short as the tip of the sharp blade poked at my throat.

  "Watch as I bloody more than my hands," Dubois seethed.

  I froze, feeling hot tears blur my vision. I vaguely saw Britton's unconscious form and heard LeAnna's sobbing, though it suddenly felt like they were very far away. Like everything was far away or under water—my sight blurring, my ears ringing. Almost like every sense I had was focused on the tip of the knife poking harder and hard
er into my throat, threatening to spill the blood pounding in my ears all over Jerry Taylor's beautiful yacht. My head swam with random images—my father's grave, my soon-to-be orphaned cat. Ryder. Rafe. Tate's voice telling me how fabulous I am. My own high-pitched cry as I felt the blade of the knife pierce my skin.

  Then I heard a voice loud and clear from the doorway, breaking through the fog.

  "Are you feeling lucky, punk?" it asked in a deep baritone. "Well, are ya?!"

  I blinked, looking toward the sound, but I could only make out a shadowy figure.

  "Who are you?" Dubois squinted toward the doorway.

  LeAnna must have noticed, as I did, that Dubois's attention was firmly on the figure now…and not on her. She slowly rose to her feet, standing tall behind Dubois like an unkempt phoenix rising from the ashes. Anger consumed her face—jaw set, nostrils flaring, tight fists clenching over and over at her sides. If she'd been scary as a seductive woman, she was downright frightening as a woman scorned. She scanned the room, her eyes landing on the Gustav Klimt painting, an evil smile curling her lips. She quickly grabbed it from the wall and reared it back. I waffled between my own safety and the painting's. The art curator in me wanted to scream out for her to put it back. Common sense made sure I kept my mouth shut. Thankfully, for the Klimt anyway, she kept the painting flat as she flung it at Dubois, catching the side of his head with the frame.

  Unfortunately, with her spindly arms, the blow wasn't enough to stun him for long. It was just enough to piss him off. He dropped the knife from my throat and turned all of his aggression on her, raising his knife and lunging.

  LeAnna screamed, I screamed, and I could have sworn that even the deep baritone in the doorway screamed as a shot rang out, ripping through Dubois's shoulder, slumping him to the floor as though he'd lost all bone structure.

  For a moment, the only sound I heard was my own breathing coming out in short, hard gasps. Then I looked up as footsteps made their way from the doorway into the room.