by Jane Drager
Deems wanted to believe he caused the hesitation, and at any second, she’d whirl and throw herself into his arms.
Wishful thinking. That typical scenario happened whenever a woman discovered his bank account. Any woman, even Lauren, could guess that his job paid well by the look of his tailored suits. He wasn’t an off-the-rack man and hadn’t been for quite a few years, but Lauren knew him as Jan’s brother who worked at High-Rise International. Technically, a mere real estate agent. For the time being, he intended to keep his real identity under wraps. “Is anything wrong, Lauren?”
Brows furrowed, she turned slowly to face him. “I’m contemplating fate.” She left the curb and strolled toward him. “If I hadn’t been financially strapped, I’d never have met Jan and ultimately you.” A slow smile spread onto her lips. “Given different circumstances, this friendship of ours can go in the opposite direction.”
The comment certainly boosted his ego. His hopes soared. “You mean lovers?”
With her gaze fixed on his face, she nodded. “I won’t, though, and you know why. You’re a nice guy, Deems, but we’re from two different worlds.”
So much for hope. He scowled. “You say that as if you want to convince yourself.”
A slight smile touched her mouth. “Maybe.”
His gaze scanned her face and searched for a glimmer of want, but he glimpsed only questions. He could provide so much for her—if she’d let him. Ever since his early twenties, he lived by the old adage of patience being a virtue. He once waited three years for a client to come around to his way of thinking. With Lauren, he’d wait longer. No woman intrigued him more than this beauty from apple country. He gave her a slow, lingering look. “I’m a patient man, Lauren, probably the most patient you’ll ever meet.”
She acknowledged the comment with a lift to her brow before turning to join the crowd crossing the street.
Given what different circumstances? If Lauren had come to New York as planned, with money in her pocket, she’d have no need to bunk with Jan. She’d still be engaged, and he’d have no opportunity to meet her. Truthfully, her present situation suited him just fine. He enjoyed helping her, and for a brief moment in the park, he glimpsed happiness on her face. The park or him, he couldn’t tell, but he’d like to see her smile more often, especially when the smile glowed from her gaze.
But an ex-fiancé left her financially strapped. No money and no job, along with emotional scars, would make any woman cautious. What possessed the man to disappear and take everything? A loan shark pressing for payment? Another woman? The whole premise smacked of desperation. But why steal her clothes and leave her high and dry without a penny to spare?
On the other hand, Deems should thank him. Lauren was free.
His gaze followed Lauren as she strolled along Fifth Avenue toward Seventy-Seventh Street. She walked with strength in her stride, head high, and her pace leisurely, in no hurry to get anywhere. The woman definitely filled out a pair of blue jeans. Nice ass. Long legs. Not the pampered type so common on his arm.
For some unfathomable reason, he started in her direction with every intention of following for a single block and then calling Lou Zane to swing by with the limo. Fifth Avenue ran parallel to Central Park so heavy foot traffic cluttered both sides of the street. He stayed on the Central Park side close to the parapet separating the park from the sidewalk and kept within the crowd in case she turned, but he needn’t worry. Her distance stretched almost a full block ahead, and unless she had damn good eyesight, she’d never pinpoint him among the others.
One block stretched into two then three. Guilt consumed him, but still, he followed. She’d made her need for secrecy perfectly clear, yet something propelled his feet forward. An uneasiness for sure, judging from the tightness in his gut. He should have insisted on walking her home. Hell, he had a good excuse after witnessing the Hispanic’s desperation.
Lauren crossed at the Seventy-Second Street stop light, and Deems slowed his pace. Five blocks was enough. Why take a chance to destroy her fragile trust simply because he fought this powerful need to protect her? Stepping closer to the parapet and away from the foot traffic on the sidewalk, he reached into his pocket for his cell phone when a man in a black leather jacket dashed from one of the park entrances and ran across Fifth Avenue, dodging traffic in his quest to reach the other side.
The Hispanic!
His gut wrenched. “Well, I’ll be a son-of-a-bitch.” What was the man’s obsession with Lauren’s backpack? Would the friggin’ bastard follow her to the end of the earth? He hurried after him.
Deems debated calling 911, but what could he say, that he was following a man who attacked a woman earlier in the day? He hadn’t asked for the name of the officer who met them in the park, and since the incident occurred only a few hours ago, the chances of the officer having the time to file the report were slim to none.
A minute later, Lauren turned left onto Seventieth Street and out of his sight.
The Hispanic ran to the corner and peeked before following.
The call forgotten, Deems sprinted across Fifth Avenue, scooted around a crawling black sedan with tinted windows, and barely escaped being run over by a tour bus. At the intersection of Seventieth and Fifth Avenue, he peeked around the side of the building and then rounded the corner.
The street was like so many others in New York—one way for traffic, parking allowed on both sides, and the through-lane tight since cars grew in size while the streets stayed the same width. This neighborhood, like so many, was a mixture of residences and businesses, from brownstones to brick to gray stones, all connected in one long row. Scaffolding was a common sight as was the sound of jackhammers, but neither concerned him as he scurried to catch up.
Lauren crossed to the opposite side of the street.
The Hispanic followed and strolled about a half block behind.
From his lackadaisical walk, he had no intention of overtaking Lauren, and the revelation raised Deems’ blood pressure a few notches. Deems wanted to shout and warn Lauren, but to do so would reveal that he, too, followed. So, he stayed on his side of the street and observed both, keeping to their pace but a discreet distance behind.
A car horn blared. Deems glanced over his shoulder to see the black sedan with tinted windows crawling along, creating road rage for the driver tailgating. When an opening alongside the curb occurred, the sedan rolled in to let traffic pass, and then quickly pulled out to continue its slow crawl. Looking for a house number, no doubt.
A little boy, pedaling furiously on a tricycle, zoomed around Deems, imitating the sounds of a race car, nearly colliding into a parcel delivery girl intent on the package in her hand. Down the block, a painter descended a ladder with a bucket of paint in hand while a helper rolled up the canvas covering the sidewalk. Everyday life in the city.
Another car horn blared, breaking into his thoughts. With a quick glance over his shoulder, Deems jerked to a stop. The same black sedan! The car again rolled into an open space alongside the curb to let the cars pass, but this time, Deems stood against the steps of a brownstone to watch the vehicle drive by. Two men sat in the front seat, both wearing suits and ties. The side windows were too dark to see if anyone occupied the rear seat.
What was wrong with this picture? Was the driver a complete idiot and unable to find his way? No one drove this slow in New York unless…
No, the idea wasn’t possible.
He waited for the sedan to drive far enough ahead before continuing. Who were they tailing—Lauren or the Hispanic? What the hell is going on here? Was Lauren being honest about her stay? If so, what possible interest could these people have in a woman supposedly taking an art class?
Thinking back, he knew so little about Lauren Howell. Her story about being from Pennsylvania’s apple country could be a cover. Perhaps, she had a more covert reason for her visit to New York and had to leave Jan’s apartment, because Eric discovered the truth and threatened to expose her. Maybe she wasn’t atte
nding an art class at all and hid her location to prevent a slip in identity. What proof had he that she was really an artist?
His instincts had served him well over the years, and every fiber told him he was right about Lauren Howell. She displayed more integrity than any woman on his social list. Nothing and no one could convince him otherwise.
With that belief in mind, he quickened his pace but purposely stayed behind the sedan. Another block later, the Hispanic stopped with a jerk, whirled his head and body in all directions, ran a hundred feet, stopped again and whirled.
Lauren had disappeared!
Panic gripped Deems’ chest. Where the hell was she? Had she entered a building without him noticing? But the Hispanic’s frantic search eased the knot in his gut. Resisting the urge to run down the street, Deems slipped into the shadow of some scaffolding as the black sedan sped toward the Hispanic and screeched to a halt.
A man in a brown suit jumped from the front seat, grabbed the Hispanic, threw him onto the rear seat, and then slipped in beside him. The door slammed, and the car sped off. The abduction took no more than fifteen seconds.
Stunned frozen, Deems stared while his mind raced. What possible reason could anyone have to grab the Hispanic in the middle of the street and in broad daylight? What kind of trouble was he in, and was Lauren involved? And where the hell was she?
Curiosity colliding with concern, he took two steps away from the scaffolding. At the same moment, Lauren jumped from the open rear doors of a parked box delivery truck and scanned the area.
Seconds later, also from the rear, the uniformed driver of the truck appeared. Turning, Lauren shook his hand, adjusted her backpack, and continued down Seventieth Street.
Biting his tongue, Deems suppressed the laughter about to erupt at how she accomplished her disappearing act without anyone noticing. This woman could definitely handle herself, and he released a long, satisfied breath. She’d be fine for the remainder of her walk home.
But what about the black sedan and the Hispanic? Shouldn’t he notify the police? Not like he could tell them much. He failed to look at the license plate on the vehicle. The man who jumped out had a buzz cut and no neck. Big deal—the clues were brown suit and brown hair.
Something made him hesitate to retrieve his cell phone. He wasn’t sure what. Only a bad feeling. He glanced in Lauren’s direction to see her walking as leisurely as before. Had she witnessed the abduction, or a worse thought, had she anything to do with the two men in the sedan?
Dear Lord, if he read mysteries, he’d love every sordid detail uncovered, but he hadn’t picked up a good book in years. So, why was his imagination running wild?
Gut instinct kicked into gear. He learned early in life not to ignore the feeling. Too many questions with no answers. He nudged his feet to move in Lauren’s direction. If anything, he had to ascertain her safe return home. He hurried to shorten the distance between them.
Two blocks later, Lauren ascended the steps to a brownstone with a sign over its door, Rooms To Rent. Deems stopped alongside a small tree to take in the surroundings, grateful for the rest. He hadn’t walked such a distance in years. Sixteen blocks at a guess. All concrete and hard on the legs.
“You lost, mister?”
An old man had exited a shoe shop, carrying a pair of black leather shoes under his arm. They were spit-polished but worn with new leather soles tacked to the bottom. With a jerk of his head, Deems nodded toward the brownstone. “What can you tell me about that rooming house across the street?”
The old guy scanned Deems with one swift glance. “You can afford better than that dive.”
He forced a smile. “I’m casing the place for a friend.”
“The joint isn’t fit for a dog.” Shaking his head, he moved on.
Not the most pleasant piece of news. In outward appearance, the brownstone looked all right. No derelicts hung around the door, and no obvious drug dealers lurked in the nearby alleys. A small coffee shop stood a few doors down, and on his side of the street at the corner was Maria’s Market with vegetable stands out front.
All right. Now what? Lauren had arrived safe and sound, and the Hispanic had been whisked away to places unknown. A quick call to the police would be the sensible course of action. Hell, he had to do something. If he spotted the man’s photo on the eleven o’clock news after being fished from the Hudson, he’d feel guilty as sin.
Again, he reached for his cell phone but instantly froze. A familiar head of stringy hair caught his eye. Eric darted between two parked cars and, without a second of hesitation, took the brownstone’s steps two at a time. With a quick glance over his shoulder, he disappeared through the door.
Deems’ fists clenched. Eric found her. How? Or had she told him? Why do I have so many doubts?
Because women had fooled him before. Perhaps Lauren and Eric connived a scheme to…what? Bilk Jan’s brother? Oh, right, so she moves out to make the plan easier to execute. He either believed Lauren, or he didn’t. And at that moment, he believed her. The more they talked, the more he recognized a woman with her head screwed on tight, with no pretense and no airs—a woman who’d stand her ground and fight, as evidenced by her bruised right hand and Eric’s left jaw.
A strong sense of possessiveness took hold. He didn’t want Eric within ten feet of Lauren, and damned if he’d let him reach her. After checking for traffic, Deems sprinted across the street and followed Eric’s path into the brownstone.
Chapter Nine
The shabbiness of the lobby struck Deems first. Furniture not fit for curbside pickup decorated the main entry room. A man with a potbelly straining his shirt buttons lounged on a filthy sofa, its cushions long past comfortable. He chewed on an unlit cigar while staring at a flat-screen television hanging on the wall—the newest object in the room. Worn linoleum covered the floor, and down a short hall, a gated cubbyhole with an Office sign hanging overhead stood empty. The whole place smelled of stale cigar smoke and burnt bacon.
Deems approached the man. “You the manager?”
The man gave Deems a quick glance before returning his gaze to the TV. “Can I help you?”
Jaw muscles twitching, Deems sucked in a calming breath. “I’m looking for Lauren Howell.”
He rolled the stogie to the other side of his mouth and cast a more intense perusal over Deems. “Popular lady tonight. Second floor. Room twelve. Some other guy is ahead of you, although I’d say you’re several notches above the likes of him.” While pointing a fat index finger, he turned slightly to face Deems. “I don’t want no trouble in this place, hear?”
“I’ll do my best.” He headed for the stairwell.
Every step creaked along the way, making stealth damn near impossible. As he neared the second floor landing, he could see Eric with his forehead pressed against door number twelve.
“Come on, Lauren. Open up!” Eric pounded with an open palm.
“Go away, or I’ll call the cops!”
Like a floodgate opening, heat swept through Deems as muscles tensed and pulse quickened. Just from Eric and Lauren’s verbal exchange, he had absolutely no doubt about Lauren’s side of the story being the truth. Jan was a fool.
“This door can’t hold me back, Lauren.” Eric readied his shoulder as a battering ram.
Fists clenching, Deems slammed his foot onto the landing. “Do you plan to force your way inside?”
Eric whirled, hair swinging to slap his face. A cold, hard gaze glared. Recognition registered, and his face drained of color. “Yo, man, what are you doing here?”
“Obviously, not for the same reason you are.” He fought the urge to wring Eric’s skinny neck, but given the least provocation, he’d swing with pleasure at his ugly puss. Sucking in a calming breath, Deems placed his other foot on the landing and stretched to his full height, doing his damnedest to look imposing. “How long have you known where she lived?”
Thrusting out his chest, he stepped away from the door. “Not since yesterday—and you promis
ed to call me.”
“I made no such promise.” Jaw tight, he approached. “For the record, I found out five minutes ago.”
Eric’s gaze darted from Lauren’s door to the staircase behind Deems.
He looked every bit a caged animal searching for an opening. The man wasn’t a total moron. To fight Deems meant an end to his meal ticket—namely Jan. Little did Eric know Deems Lambert hadn’t raised his fists to any man. In his entire life, he talked his way out of every bad situation, and living in Chicago, he’d faced a lot of scary moments. Today, he might finally connect his fist to another man’s jaw.
“Jan wants her back, Deems.” Avoiding eye contact, he rubbed his palms against his hips. “She’s heartbroken so I came to talk some sense into Lauren.”
“By ramming down her door? Come on, Eric, how stupid do you think I am?” He took another step forward, purposely splaying his fingers to prevent a swing at Eric’s face. “And while we’re on the topic, I listened to one story from Jan and another completely different one from Lauren. You want to try for a third version?”
Cringing, Eric shifted from foot to foot. “That night was a gross misunderstanding. I was half asleep when I wandered into the living room and thought I jumped Jan on the sofa.” With a weak grin, he rubbed the bruised area on his jaw. “I made an honest mistake, man. Lauren usually stays in her room, but boy, she freaked and slugged me.”
“Well, I don’t think Lauren has any intention of returning to the apartment.” His gaze never deviating from Eric’s, he crossed his arms over his chest. “She doesn’t trust you and, quite frankly, neither do I.”
“Look, man.” He raised his hands, palms outward. “I can stay out of her way. She only has a few more months left in New York, right? And her being with us again will make Jan real happy.”
What Jan saw in this man was beyond any comprehension. Of course, she was still young and easily influenced, and Eric, being much older, probably took advantage of as many women as possible.
