And he told me I asked for it.
“You did?”
“I was scared,” she repeated. “So I took the chickenshit way out of a problem I just didn’t know how to handle. And I never told anyone. Not even Zach.”
“Or the guy would be dead.”
“As a doornail, as you would say.” Her heart was hitting double time for no good reason. What difference did it make if Lang didn’t approve? It was legal. She had a choice. She’d been raped by her boyfriend—who would believe that?
“Was it the boy next door?”
The old-fashioned phrase made Kenny Taylor sound so… innocent. That riled, but she just nodded, her thumbnail stabbing the moist label of the water bottle.
“Is that why you quit ballet and cheerleading?”
That was exactly why. Not because of the abortion. But because she couldn’t stand to be in her own skin for one more day. Couldn’t stand to be the cheerleader who kicked so high the basketball players saw her crotch. Couldn’t stand to be the dancer who wore skimpy outfits and asked for it. Couldn’t stand to be a woman completely vulnerable to a man.
“Yes,” she said, absolutely loathing that he’d figured all that out and that it made her eyes sting. “That’s why.” Why she got five piercings in her ears and one in her nose. And why she gave up crying, chopped off her hair, grabbed a skateboard, and tried to be tough and… less female.
He reached his hand over the table, closing it around hers and the water bottle. “I understand why you’ve waited, then.”
No, he really didn’t. But he thought he did, and that was good enough for her.
“I just wish I had known,” he added.
“Would it have stopped you?”
“No… maybe… yes. What I mean is that it would have been”—he looked helpless to find a word—“more.”
“More what?” she asked. “Meaningful? Important? Life changing?”
“All of the above.”
She just smiled. “It was to me.”
He just paled and looked down at the food, silent.
In other words, sex with her wasn’t any of those things to him.
“Your phone is buzzing,” he said, angling his head toward the floor, where a line of discarded clothes spilled from the door to the bathroom. “Do you want to get it?”
“It’s a text.” She pushed away from the table to retrieve the phone and read the message from Chessie. Vivi, call me stat! Urgent news.
“Something’s up,” she said, already dialing. “From Chessie. Maybe she got something from Joellen’s texts.”
He looked up from the table. “You’re reading them? You’re illegally tapping her phone?”
“Just her texts,” she said, cringing a little as Chessie’s phone rang in her ear. “Chessie knew how and after we got the message and figured out it was—”
“Vivi, she’s coming back to Nantucket,” Chessie said as she answered the call. “Tomorrow afternoon.”
“Let me put you on speaker so ASAC Lang is in on everything.” She put the phone on the table between them. “All right, Chess. What’s going on?”
“Joellen is exchanging texts with someone about Cara coming to Nantucket tomorrow. I haven’t figured out who yet.”
“What does she say?” Vivi asked.
“The first text said ‘CF ready to talk. Will bring her to NanT tomorrow aft.’ I figured CF was Cara Ferrari and NanT was Nantucket, so, naturally, I followed this thread closely.”
“Naturally,” Lang said dryly, putting down a chicken leg after taking a bite, then wiping his hands on a napkin.
“And in less than a minute, she got a response from someone—someone who is blocking their number and is wicked untraceable—who said, ‘That takes balls. Bring her.’ ”
“Okay, so she’s coming here.” Vivi sat back down, defeated. “We can’t exactly look for evidence of her involvement with Emmanuel’s trafficking ring if she’s here.”
“You can’t,” Lang said. “The FBI has every reason to be here protecting the real Cara Ferrari, so we can. In fact, it would be easier to interrogate her if she were right under my nose.”
An unfamiliar thread of jealousy twined through Vivi. She didn’t want Cara Ferrari under his anything. And she wasn’t ready to leave him yet.
“Anyway, there was a little more to the exchange,” Chessie added. “Joellen said they’d be arriving in the late afternoon on the ferry.”
“From Cape Cod or the Vineyard?” Vivi asked.
“Not sure. But there was a response.”
“Yeah?”
“This person wrote back, and I quote: ‘Take care of her. Do the job I pay you to do.’ ”
Vivi and Lang looked at each other, considering all the possibilities.
“Mercedes?” he suggested.
“Roman?” she countered.
He lifted his eyebrows. “Doubtful, but interesting theory. This person said ‘bring’ her, indicating that he or she is already in Nantucket. So my money’s on your friend in the basement.”
“You think Mercedes pays Joellen to babysit her thirty-three-year-old sister who can afford the best bodyguards in the world?”
He shrugged. “Maybe she doesn’t protect her; maybe she has another job. Just keeping her out of trouble or off the sauce.”
“Joellen’s the one on the sauce,” Vivi said. “And, just for the record, Lang—”
“I know, nobody says ‘sauce’ anymore”—he grinned—“ ’cept me.”
She rolled her eyes and shifted her attention back to the phone. “Thanks, Chessie. If it weren’t for you, I’d have no idea she was going to show up.”
“Probably the way she wants it,” Chessie said.
“Yep. The decoy body double is always the last to know.”
“Not when you break the law and illegally tap people’s phones,” Lang said.
Vivi laughed. “We’re just doing things the Angelino way.”
“Speaking of which,” Lang said. “Any word from Gabe? Did he have any luck finding a location on Cara?”
“I haven’t heard anything,” Chessie said. “But if I do, I’ll let you know.”
“Good work, Chessie. We’ll be in touch.” Vivi disconnected the call and leaned back with a sigh. “Guess the party’s almost over for me.”
Lang gave her a dark look, and a very sexy half smile. “We have a few more hours, Poison. And you have a lot of catching up to do.”
The irony of that hit her hard. “Sixteen years of waiting for you, Lang, and I end up with a few hours to get my fill.”
His sexy smile faltered, but his gaze never did. “Then you better make the most of them.”
CHAPTER 19
Colt woke to an empty bed. At first he opened his eyes and stared at the indent on the pillow next to him, a single strand of black hair left behind. In the recesses of his sleep-starved brain he remembered that he was waiting for a report on that hair but didn’t have anything yet.
The hint of sweet vanilla still lingered in the bed and the place where Vivi’s body had been tucked so close to his was still warm enough for him to know she’d just gotten up, probably to go to the bathroom.
He didn’t hear water running, or any movement at all, so he forced himself up on his elbows, blinking into the dawn-dim room to see Vivi cross-legged on the floor, wearing those happy face boxers and a tissue-thin tank top, architect’s blueprints spread out in front of her.
Sensing his eyes on her, she looked up and smiled. “Morning.”
And all manner of stupid stuff happened in his chest. Heart rate up, breathing tight, a band of pain he used to think was mourning but now knew was something else completely. Emotional paralysis.
“Hey,” he said, his voice still gruff from sleep. “What are you doing?”
“Looking at the plans we found in the skeleton attic. All tunnels.”
“Connecting the two houses?”
“Not really. These go all the way down to the water.”
He sat up, more interested. “Which would be a helluva way to move traffic,” he said.
“Human traffic,” she agreed. “But I was in those drainage ditches and there’s nothing like this down there. These even show a connection right where I was under that porch. And another on the other side of the bog in an old harvesting building that isn’t even there anymore. Nothing on these blueprints was ever built.”
“That would be too easy for us.” He pushed the covers back, naked underneath, a morning erection threatening despite making love twice in the night. “I have two agents combing this island, but it’s sizable and so much of it is inaccessible by foot or vehicle. My guess is they’re moving people like cargo right off the ships in the main harbor.”
She made a disgusted face. “How can they do that? And all the way from Laos? Why not move them in trucks across the country? Wouldn’t that be easier than—what, going through the Panama Canal?”
“One would think,” he agreed. “But a place like this? All tourists and art galleries? It’s kind of brilliant, actually, when you think about it. Completely off the federal radar.”
“Especially if you move them under your own house.” She leaned back, surveying him lustily. “What’s on your docket for today, Assistant Special Agent in Charge Lang?”
“Give the woman three orgasms and she finally gets the title right.”
“Four if you count that thing you did with the palm of your—where did you learn that, anyway?”
He chuckled softly. “Not in Quantico. If you come back to bed I’ll teach you.”
“Yeah, good skill to have when you’re gone.” Her smile wavered, and faded.
Neither of them spoke for a minute, the intimacy of the night before still heavy in the air, the inevitability that they might have just had their one and only night together just as intense between them.
Jesus. He never dreamed he’d want to stay in Boston. Would she ever—consider… living in L.A.? “I guess there’s no chance you’d…” Colt, are you nuts? “Come back to bed.”
She shook her head and pushed herself up briskly, brushing her legs like she was brushing the invitation off her. “Too much to do today.”
“Get ready for the arrival of the star?”
“I’d like to go to the bank.”
“Excuse me?”
She grabbed one of the blueprints, letting it roll back into a tube shape, then firing it at him, javelin style. “Read the back. If we can get that paperwork out of the bank before Cara gets back, you’ll at least have real proof that a tie between her and Roman still exists. Part of this property is co-owned by RE Global and Cara Ferrari Enterprises. According to that, the Bank of America in Nantucket holds the title.”
He unrolled the paper and read the words confirming that while she disappeared into the closet. “How do you plan to get that, Vivi? It would take at least two days to get a court order for a warrant and…” His voice trailed off. She didn’t know the meaning of court orders and warrants.
She stepped out of the closet holding two dresses on hangers. One yellower and shorter and smaller than the other. “Which do you think Cara would wear to the bank? Mustard or sunflower?”
“You’re going to walk into the Bank of America dressed as Cara Ferrari and demand to see the deeds to this property.”
She raised the one on the right. “I think sunflower. So bright and optimistic, unlike some people I know.”
“Vivi.” He shot off the bed and strode into the closet just in time to see her strip the boxers down, her backside facing him, her front displayed in a three-way mirror.
His poor, mindless dick couldn’t care less that they were arguing.
“You have a better idea, Lang?” She flipped the top off, standing stark naked and glorious.
“Yeah.” He pointed to the chaise longue next to her. “Let’s do it in front of the mirror.”
She just smiled and shook her head. “Nice idea, but I want to get to the bank as it opens. Chessie is getting me—”
He held up a hand to stop her. “I don’t want to know. As it is, my ass is going to be fired for breaking every law ever created to protect the rights of civilians.”
“What about those girls sold as sex slaves?” She spun around, her eyes blistering with emotion. “Who’s protecting their rights? If Cara Ferrari is aiding and abetting—even unknowingly—that man or anyone to take children and sell them on the open market and offer them up as prostitutes and cheap farm workers—”She shook her head, frustration stealing the rest of the words. “I’m going to do what I can to help stop it before she gets here. I think getting our hands on that deed—before she has any idea that the FBI has all this on her already and destroys it—is more important than going through the proper channels to get into that bank.”
He just looked at her, a tsunami of déjà vu threatening to knock him over.
“What?” she demanded. “You don’t agree? You think—”
“No,” he brushed off the argument. “You just reminded me of someone for a minute.”
“Of who? Jennifer?” The word stabbed him like a real javelin this time.
“Yes.”
“Well, it’s about time you admit she’s in this room between us. Because it’s getting awfully crowded here.”
He narrowed his eyes at her. “I haven’t mentioned her once. I haven’t even thought about her. Not a single time last night, Vivi. I was… lost in you.”
A soft breath escaped her lips as she held the yellow dress in front of her body, as if she were suddenly aware of how vulnerable and naked she was. “But you’re not over her.”
“Actually, I am.” And just saying that felt good. “What I’m not over is… is the potential to go through it again. But, frankly, that balls-to-the-wall approach to every situation is exactly what got her killed.”
She nodded, as if she understood. “I’m not going to get killed at the bank.”
“Probably not,” he agreed. “But I’ll go as your bodyguard anyway. And all you can do is take pictures of the stuff. You are not going to commit a federal crime and remove those papers from the bank. You got that?”
“I got it.”
“Any other rules you want to break before I hit the shower?”
She nodded, and he just prayed it had to do with that chaise and those three-way mirrors.
“I don’t want you to report the dead body.”
His jaw just dropped. “What?”
“What’s it going to change now, Lang? Mercedes was raped, she’s emotionally wrecked, all this will do is bring it to light and force her to relive the whole situation over and over again. And, oh my God, with Cara’s celebrity status, can you imagine the tabloids? Her secret mother, a bog worker shot by her sister, a body in the attic? Why? It happened years ago.”
He just swallowed, already knowing where this was going.
“I’ll talk to her,” she said quickly when he didn’t respond. “I’ll get all the details and then we’ll figure out how to report the death, if we have to, but keep it off the radar.”
“Vivi—”
“In fact, when Cara comes here, I’ll talk to her. And Joellen. I’ll tell them we know and there has to be a report and if they work with us, maybe the police or the FBI could keep it quiet.”
“Why?” he asked. “Why are you protecting any of them? Mercedes has been a bitch to you. I still think she let the dog out so someone, if not her, could try and kill you.”
“I just feel bad for her, Lang.” She took a few steps closer to him. “If she were just another woman, then, okay. But the media, think about it. It will be awful for her. They’ll want her on TV, and the press will hound her, they’ll do reenactments….” Her voice broke and for one second he could have sworn he saw tears in her eyes. But Vivi didn’t cry; she’d already told him that.
Still, the heartfelt plea hit home. “After you talk to her and Cara, I’ll decide.”
“Thanks, Lang.” She reached up and kissed his cheek. “Now
if we hurry, we can get home in time to use that chaise longue.”
She winked and brushed by him on the way to the bathroom, leaving him unsure what just hit him. Hurricane Vivi. Category Five.
“The coast, as they say, is clear.”
“As you say,” Vivi corrected, climbing out of the blanket that covered her while they escaped the peering eyes of the paparazzi. The crowds near the gate had thinned considerably, but there were still some hangers-on, someone hoping for another Red Carpet Killer to somehow break the seal the FBI had put around the house and attack.
But the authorities had not yet released Sunisa Pakpao’s name. Lang told her the FBI contacts had Roman Emmanuel traveling in Europe, and they’d successfully kept the shooting on the property the other night out of the media. Interest in Cara had waned a little, as the media waited for an ID on her assailant. No doubt with the real Cara under their nose, they’d release that name and close in tighter on whatever connection she had with Emmanuel.
Cara was not going to be a happy camper.
Vivi was probably not going to make a million dollars, nor would the Guardian Angelinos be the superstar of the security world with anyone but the FBI.
And her favorite client at the Boston Bureau would be long gone.
“It’s my dad,” Lang said.
Still situating herself in the subsize yellow outfit, Vivi frowned at him from the back, meeting his gaze in the rearview mirror. “What’s your dad?”
“My dad uses all those dated phrases I love and you hate.”
“I don’t actually hate them,” she admitted. “They’re part of your charm.”
He smiled. “He used expressions like cockamamie and malarkey and the coast is clear because he’s an old 1950s TV aficionado. Loved The Honeymooners when he was a kid, then shows like Green Acres and every John Wayne movie ever made. He loved old Westerns like Gunsmoke and Bonanza. He quoted them, and that’s where the language comes from.”
“How old is he?” she asked, stealing a peek to make sure no reporters or photographers had followed.
“Mid-sixties.”
“That’s all?” she said. “You said he was getting on, and needed assistance.”
Face of Danger Page 23
