Hunt Her Down

by Roxanne St Claire

But she had three minutes until this one arrived, so she dropped onto her chair and touched the laptop to bring it to life. Lola never wasted anything, especially time. At twenty-three, she was already almost a millionaire. You didn’t get there by taking breaks and thinking about men who’d adored you for a few hours.

  Well, some breaks. And some men.

  While she waited, she clicked through the air-shipping schedule for the evening, and dashed off a quick note to the CEO of a furniture company in North Carolina who’d just signed on as Omnibus Transport’s latest customer. That one gave her a twinge of satisfaction.

  After all, furniture delivery had always been the humble roots of this little empire.

  The elevator dinged and she touched the button on her desk to unlock her door, a security measure she’d learned from her father. Standing up, she rounded the desk to position herself in front of it. She’d make him sit of course, the only way to get a height advantage on a man of six-two.

  The door opened slowly and she met the steely eyes of Constantine Xenakis, thief, mercenary, and one of the finest specimens of male to ever cross her threshold. She took a slow ride down his incredible body, but her gaze stopped at the tan box in his hand.

  The thrill of victory was so intense she shivered. “Well, that looks promising. A lockbox.”

  “There was nothing else close to what you wanted in her house.”

  “Maybe she carries it with her.”

  “I thought of that, but wasn’t able to get her bag. She’s got muscle.” He took three long strides to her desk and clunked the box on her desk. “Or . . . someone else has beat you to the punch.”

  She curled her lip. Impossible. “Maybe Maggie did get some protection. She’s probably heard that Ramon is out.”

  “She goes by Lena, and she doesn’t just have a bodyguard, my friend. She has one of the best in the business. A Bullet Catcher. That’s with capital letters. Top man in the company, too, so she’s paying a handsome fee for his services. Unless . . .” He looked hard at her. “You planted him there.”

  Lola dismissed the suggestion with a wave. “Nope. You got this, and if you got what I wanted, nothing else matters. You didn’t open it, did you?”

  “Of course not.” He eased into one of her guest chairs, lifting his legs to land a pair of scuffed Docksiders next to the box on the desk in a move both rude and arrogant.

  No matter. She touched the lock. “Can you get this off?’

  “Yes.”

  “Then do it.”

  He grinned. “Lock removal’s an extra grand.”

  “Fuck you, Con.” Not for one minute did she believe he hadn’t opened the box before he brought it here. But he wouldn’t keep what she wanted, because then he wouldn’t get the ten thousand dollars she’d agreed to pay him for it.

  She yanked open the top drawer of her desk and pulled out her little pink-handled revolver, aiming it at the box.

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake.” He slammed his feet down and took the gun from her hand. “And I thought you were elegant.”

  The dig stung, but at this point, she didn’t care. Her heart rate was up and her palms were damp. She was so close. So, so close to finally winning Alonso Jimenez’s biggest game.

  Con stood, reached into his pants pocket, and pulled out a tiny silver cell phone, which he set on the desk, then a key ring, which he squeezed, popping out a short metal prong. He put it in the lock, twisting once, then again. The lock released with a soft ping.

  She took off the lock and slowly lifted the dented lid. Her father used to tell her that sometimes the most valuable treasures were hidden in ugly places.

  Of course, he said that when he squeezed her face and tried to erase the insult by jostling her chin. The heartless bastard.

  There wasn’t much in the box, but that was okay. What she wanted was very small. But all it held was . . . papers.

  She lifted one after the other. Insurance. Deeds. A birth certificate. A passport? A wedding license?

  That was it. Legal papers.

  She sifted through again, checking corners, fluttering the documents. “It’s not here.” “It’s nowhere else in her house. I looked in all the places where women keep things.”

  Glaring daggers of accusation, she leaned forward. “If you doublecross me, you lying, thieving bastard, you’ll be sorry.”

  “Calm down, Lola. I have to get to her another way than a B and E into her house or bar. I have to talk to her, which I would have easily done if that Bullet Catcher hadn’t beat me to it.”

  “I agree, and I have just the thing to make her talk. Leave.”

  “What?”

  “Go out in the hall. I’ll let you back in. I want to show you something, but you need to leave first.”

  He got up with an amused look on his face and walked out, closing the door with a solid click, but she followed him and double-checked the lock. You couldn’t trust a thief.

  Then she headed to the wet bar, crouched down, and opened the cabinet, which, of course, didn’t contain a drop of alcohol.

  Reaching into the back, she touched the digital pad hidden behind a false door and entered the passcode. At her desk, a soft snap told her it worked. She returned to her chair, placing her hands under the front of the desk and inching out the false bottom.

  There were two items on the left side. She picked up one, a photograph of a boy not more than twelve. She closed the drawer, closed the wet bar door, too, then buzzed Con back in.

  She handed him the picture. “Use this to get it.”

  He glanced at the boy, then up at her, disgust in his eyes. “A kid?”

  “I suppose you’d want more money.”

  He set the picture down, making no effort to hide his disgust. “No, thanks.”

  “Oh, please, you’re suddenly developing morals?”

  “I’m suddenly developing a deep distaste for your style.” He picked up his phone and headed back to the door. Damn it, she had no choice.

  “Seventy-five thousand,” she said quickly.

  Con hesitated and looked over his shoulder, his silvery stare cold. “A hundred.”

  “Fine.” What was a hundred thousand when she stood to make a hundred million? “Take it,” she said, waving the picture.

  “I don’t need it.” He left without another word.

  Alone, Lola sat back down, disappointment seeping through her. Not because of the money she’d just spent, but because she thought she had Viejo beat. But the momentum in the game was definitely not on her side.

  She lifted up a crispy parchment deed, the marriage license, the birth certificate, and let them flutter to her shiny desk. Useless crap that didn’t . . .

  For a moment, she didn’t breathe. She just stared at the words in front of her and felt her jaw loosen.

  Constantine Xenakis might just have earned his ten thousand dollars. Because if information was power, this little tidbit was a nuclear plant.

  Magdalena Varcek. You little vixen.

  The game had just shifted Lola’s way.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  BY FIVE O’CLOCK on Sunday afternoon, Dan lost the fight.

  He’d done really well, too. He hadn’t gone back to Smitty’s. He hadn’t gone back to Maggie’s little house less than two miles from the marina next to the bar. He hadn’t succumbed to what he knew was a very bad idea . . . one more night with her.

  More specifically, one more night of sex with her.

  If she somehow figured out who he was, she’d want to kill him. If he slept with her and disappeared again—well, nothing could justify that. She deserved better.

  He’d even packed his bags and checked out of the resort, with every intention of getting into that rented Porsche by noon and heading straight up U.S. 1 to Miami to spend a few days with Max and Cori and little Peyton. Maybe he’d call the Bullet Catchers’ office and run a background on Constantine Xenakis. That’s all he needed to do.

  Nothing had to be done . . . in person.

  Y
et, he turned onto the street where she lived. He still had that nagging belief that he recognized the vandal who’d broken into the car, so he just couldn’t leave. It wasn’t safe for her.

  Then he turned the corner and saw her.

  Man, it wasn’t safe for him.

  She was splayed over the hood of a white truck, sudsy water rolling all over the place, her arms wiping furiously. Tiny jeans shorts barely covered her heart-shaped butt, a bushel of curls tied up like a palm tree grew out of her head, and the skimpy pink tank top had to be soaking wet as she laid her whole screaming-hot body over the front end of the Silverado.

  Whoa. Could he possibly have her, just once, and then leave the same way he appeared? Quickly and mysteriously and without explanation?

  Could he possibly not?

  She hadn’t yet noticed the Porsche idling at the stop sign two houses away. Throwing the sponge down, she pushed off the truck, landing on her bare feet and brushing stray, wet hairs off her face with the back of her hand. She turned to the house and yelled something.

  She wasn’t alone.

  He tapped the accelerator, revving the engine enough to make her whip around and squint down the street, raising her hand to the setting sun, and taking a slow step backward when she realized what car made the noise.

  She tilted her head toward the house, calling again.

  Dan rumbled forward, closing the space slowly, until he stopped at the end of her driveway. He lowered the passenger-side window.

  “You missed a spot, sweetheart.”

  She threw a look over her shoulder, then ambled to his car, walking slowly enough to torture him. The wet top was plastered to the peaks of her breasts, and if her shorts were any shorter, they’d qualify as a bikini.

  When she reached the car, she propped her elbows on the window ledge. “I thought you went back to New York, Irish.”

  “You really think I’d leave and not say good-bye?”

  “You really think I worried about it?” She tempered the tease with a wink, her face glowing from a little sun and sweat, her eyes just as sultry in sunlight as they were under a moonbeam.

  “I figured you needed some breathing room.”

  She inhaled with great exaggeration. “Okay, I’ve breathed. Good-bye now.”

  Good-bye? He gestured for her to back away. “Let me park.”

  “No.” She didn’t move.

  “Why not?”

  One more little look over her shoulder gave it all away. “You’re not alone, are you, Maggie?” For one instant he imagined the fortune hunter would stroll out of the garage, and his fingers actually fisted as a wave of jealousy rocked him.

  She soothed it with a pretty smile. “I do like it when you call me that.”

  “So get rid of whoever has you watching your back, and I’ll call you Maggie all night long.”

  She collapsed a little on one arm. “Not for all the Maggie-calling in the world could I get rid of . . . him.”

  “I could.” Because now that he’d seen her again, there was no way he was leaving until he got what he wanted. And he wanted her.

  “I can’t,” she said again.

  “Whoever it is, Maggie, ditch him.” He reached across the passenger seat and put his hand on hers. “I want to be with you tonight.”

  “Oh.” The single syllable came out like a soft sigh. “No.”

  “No you don’t want to, or no you can’t ditch your . . . company.”

  “No it’s not company.” She sighed and shook her head. “Look, I haven’t been completely open with you, Dan.” She nudged her head farther into the car. “I didn’t tell you this the other night. I have a . . .”

  A door slammed behind her, and a big brown dog came barreling up the driveway, barking wildly.

  “A dog.” He finished for her, smiling as it bounded to the car and threw his paws up next to Maggie. “A huge one,” he added as a giant chocolate fur–covered face and a tongue the size of a small country filled the window space next to her.

  Dan shut off the engine, opening his door when another sound from the driveway caught his attention.

  “Yeow! Holy craptastica! I swear to God, Mom, if you know the owner of this car, I just died and went to heaven.”

  A golden-haired boy, smooth faced enough to be twelve but broad enough to pass for fifteen, pointed at the Porsche, shaking his head. “I’m freakin’ out.”

  The kid transferred his attention to Dan, who climbed out of his seat and continued around the car, drawn to the deep green eyes, the clefted chin, the toocool-for-his-own-good posture of the boy in front of him.

  Maggie, holding the dog by the collar, looked from one to the other as the animal tried hard to break her grip and jump on Dan.

  And a dog could have knocked him right over. A soft breeze could have flattened him at that minute.

  “You have a son,” he said, finishing what he now knew she was trying to say.

  “Yeah.” She got a good grip on the dog.

  Dan’s attention was riveted on the boy, who was just as riveted on the car.

  “Dude, shoot me now because that is my effing dream car!”

  “Quinn, please.”

  “Mom, I have a poster of it on my wall. No shkidding.”

  Dan didn’t take his eyes off the kid, every single detail of his appearance and demeanor suddenly so sharply in focus. “You hiding anyone else in that house, Maggie? Any other secrets? Any other surprises?”

  “No,” she said quietly. “It’s just us. Honey, this is . . . a friend of mine, Mr. . . . Gallagher.”

  “You do know him.” The boy punched his fist in the air. “Yesss!”

  Dan finally turned to look at Maggie. Her color was high as she gripped the dog’s collar with both hands. “This is Quinn.” She tilted her head, an apologetic smile on her face.

  Why should she apologize?

  The boy bounded toward the car, his jaw open just about the way Dan’s probably was.

  “And, this is our dog, Goose,” she added.

  “Goose.” He sounded as befuddled as he felt, every synapse in his brain misfiring.

  “I know, I know,” the boy said, practically dancing around the car and gingerly touching the hood. “Maverick would have been a better name.”

  Dan reached down into years of undercover training, digging for a way to not react or respond. And while he was digging, maybe he could find any possible explanation for what he saw, other than the obvious.

  But none came.

  “You thought he’d be your wingman,” Dan finally said. “So you named him Goose.”

  Quinn whipped around to Dan. “You like Top Gun, too? Cool.” He grinned, revealing neon bands through silver braces. Braces that were so new, his two front teeth still overlapped slightly.

  Dan’s tongue automatically traveled over his own front teeth, the slight misalignment as familiar to him as the green eyes he saw in the mirror every morning. The same ones staring at him right now.

  The truth gripped him like a fist, shaking him down to his feet, leaving him reeling.

  He had a son.

  A son.

  He turned to Maggie and casually bent down to scratch the dog’s ears. “So what are you two doing tonight?” Some quick stealth work and math needed to be done. “How ‘bout we all go out for dinner?”

  Her eyes widened, but the boy snorted. “In this? Is the Pope Catholic?”

  Maggie rolled her eyes and laughed softly. “Quinn.”

  He turned at the chiding note in his mother’s voice. “Can’t we? I mean, he invited us.”

  “I certainly did,” Dan agreed, dangling the keys in front of Quinn. “Can you drive yet?”

  He put his hand on his chest and pretended to choke. “Dude. I wish.”

  “You must be close to that age.” But thirteen would be the right number.

  “He’s only thirteen,” Maggie said.

  Oh, man. “I guess that would be pushing the law a little to let him drive,” he said easily. �
�But the jump seat’s big enough. Let’s go for a ride.”

  Quinn beamed. “I’m in.”

  “I’m . . . wet.” Maggie said, obviously torn.

  “It’s a rental.” Dan put a hand on her shoulder and reached for the passenger door. “You can bring the dog, for all I care.”

  She laughed, hesitating just a little.

  “Mom, we are so going in this car.”

  Defeated, she put up her hands and stepped forward, then stopped. “Wait. I have to lock the doors.”

  “Definitely, since we were burglarized the other day,” Quinn said.

  “You were?” Dan looked from one to the other. “When?”

  “The night . . . we went out.”

  “You two went out?” Quinn’s eyes popped. “Seriously?”

  “Sort of,” Maggie added.

  “Yes,” Dan said right over her words. “So go lock every door in the house, and we’ll take her for a spin.”

  The kid hesitated, more out of disbelief than disobedience, but Maggie pointed to the house. “Go. He knows what he’s talking about. He’s a bodyguard.”

  “No way!” Quinn almost jumped out of his skin. “That is tight, dude! Hang on. I need shoes, too.” He turned and jogged back down the driveway to the house with Goose close on his heels.

  “Wow,” Maggie said, swiping at one of the curls that fell on her face. “I should have such a carrot to dangle all the time.” She stepped back, biting her lip. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about him.”

  “Why?” Because he’s mine? Of course she couldn’t know, but the reality still rocked him.

  “Why didn’t I tell you, or why am I sorry?”

  “Both.”

  “I didn’t tell you because, I don’t know, raising a teenager is . . . not . . . what most men want to talk about. I’m sorry, because it feels like I deceived you and that doesn’t sit well with me.”

  He reached out to push that curl aside for her. “First of all, I’m not most men. Second, if that loses you a date, then the idiot wasn’t worth your time. And third, I’m the one who deceived you.”

  Which anyone with decent vision could see, if they compared her son to him. Of course, people see what they expect to see, and she obviously never expected to see Michael Scott again. Still, he had to get to the truth fast, because she might figure it out.