by Meg Tilly
He tipped his chin toward her. “It’s in my jacket.” Her hands scrambled over his jacket. “Lower pocket. On the right.” She tugged his phone out, and Mick belatedly remembered that he had been googling her before she got into his car. Had he cleared the screen? Shit. He extended his hand, palm up, with a calm he didn’t feel. Who is the asshole now? “Here. I’ll do it.” As she dropped the cell phone in his hand, her cool fingers made momentary contact with his and sent electrical currents zinging through him. Keeping his phone screen angled away from her view, Mick swiped up, removing the Google search of Rachel Jones, then tapped Safari and typed “Las Vegas, city hall, hours.”
“What does it say?”
He felt like a prick, the way she was looking at him so trustingly. “Seven a.m. to five thirty p.m.”
She paled even more. Looked as if she were about to faint, her hands rising to her mouth. “Holy Mary mother of God,” she whispered. And then joy, pure unadulterated joy seemed to fill her entire being. “I . . . I don’t think I’m married, Mick.” Her voice started gaining in strength. “I can’t be. I never went to city hall.”
“Hold on a minute.” He wanted nothing more than to jump on board, but one of them needed to be practical. “You might have gone. You told me you were drunk, didn’t remember the ceremony. Maybe you went, but don’t remember—”
“No.” She shook her head vehemently. Both her hands landed on the Formica tabletop, adding emphasis to her words. “It’s impossible. We were on a morning flight, arrived in Vegas around midday, took a Lyft to the hotel and checked in. We dropped our suitcases in the room, and then Kevin hustled me out the door. He’d booked a special spa day for me. Herbal wrap, massage”—she counted off on her fingers—“facial, and mani-pedi. I didn’t get dressed and back to our room until six fifteen, six twenty p.m. at the earliest.” She leaned back, dazed. “I’m not married,” she repeated. “I didn’t apply for a license at city hall, so there’s no way. Wait. Unless”—she stilled, looking at him, the worry back in her eyes—“only one of us had to go to city hall? Because Kevin would have had time to.”
“I don’t think so.” Mick’s mind flipped through what he thought was true. However, he didn’t want to give her false hope. “Let me check.” He plucked his phone off the table and tapped it on. He opened the Las Vegas City Hall website, tapped on Permits & Licenses, selected Marriage Licenses, and read. He could feel Sarah’s eyes boring into him as if all of her focused energy would bring forth the answer she wanted. He skimmed through the information again to make sure he’d gotten it right. Then looked at her straight on. “Nope. Both parties must appear in person with proof of identity. Government-issued photo ID.”
“Oh my Lord,” she whispered. “I’m free.” She looked almost like she would weep, so deep was her joy, her relief. Her husband must have been a piece of work to get this kind of response, Mick thought as he watched emotions dancing across her face like fast-moving clouds. “It’s hard to take in. My mind is spinning. He has no rights to me, then? I’m free? Like, I’m truly free?” The expression on her face was almost that of a child discovering that no monster actually lived under their bed. In that split second she looked so vulnerable and heartbreakingly innocent that it caused something inside him to ping. Something sort of like love, if he’d believed in that kind of thing. Which he didn’t, of course. Growing up in a brothel would do that to a man.
“Before you get too excited.” He hated how brutally brusque his voice came out. “We’ll need to go to Vegas to confirm. Go to city hall. They must have records of all the marriage licenses issued that day. We’ll go to the chapel the ceremony was held at, check their records—”
“We’ll . . . ?”
“Stop looking at me like that,” he growled.
“Like what?” she said softly.
“All hopeful, like I’m some kind of goddamned hero. I’m not. I’m an asshole through and through, and you’d be wise to remember that.”
But instead of scaring her off and creating some distance, her expression just softened even more. “Sure,” she said. “You’re a big, tough guy. I know.” And then she smiled the sweetest smile he’d ever seen. Made his knees feel weak, made him grateful to be seated.
Then, as if by mutual agreement, they both tucked in to their food, surrounded by the comforting noises of the restaurant and the rain pounding down outside.
27
Kevin entered the grocery store and glanced around. There was a skinny, dark-eyed kid wearing a green apron restocking the lettuce section in produce. Couldn’t be more than nineteen or twenty years old. His attempt to grow a mustache was not meeting with much success. He was working conscientiously, was a pleaser, easy to intimidate. Kevin strode over, flipped open his badge wallet, and flashed his shield at the kid. Did it quick, with his thumb across the city designation and department. “Lieutenant Hawkins, LAPD.” Mentioning he was actually NYPD would open a can of worms.
The kid’s eyes widened and then darted to the side, as if he was considering making a break for it. “I . . .” The kid’s voice came out high and reedy, and then he flushed to the roots of his hairline and swallowed hard.
A coworker, female, midforties appeared next to the kid. “Carlos,” she said, her eyes half-shuttered, mouth a straight line. “Miguel needs you up front.”
The kid turned toward her, his hand rising like a limp fish in Kevin’s direction. “But he—” The flush that had suffused his face was rapidly fading, leaving his skin with a chalky look to it. Pretty clear he was an illegal immigrant, working without documentation.
“I’ll take care of it. Go on.” The woman clapped her hands. “Quick, quick. He’s in a bad mood. You know how he gets.” The kid scurried away, shooting a grateful glance over his shoulder at his savior, who now stood, feet apart, arms crossed.
“How can I help you, sir?”
“I’m Lieutenant Hawkins from the Los Angeles Police Department.”
She nodded. “Figured as much.”
“We have reason to believe a person of interest was in your store yesterday.” Her face was a mask, but he could see her shoulders relax slightly. Chances were she was undocumented, too. He was mildly tempted to toy with her. What kind of compensation would she be willing to forfeit to convince him to look the other way with regards to her and/or the kid working in produce?
However, as enjoyable as that would be, the clock was ticking, and Kevin had a bigger fish to fry. He flashed the search warrant he had printed. “I’ll need to take a look at your surveillance video. Both in the store and the parking lot.” He didn’t let the warrant leave his hand, as it was bogus and wouldn’t withstand close scrutiny.
Her eyes flickered over the document too fast to actually be registering any of the content. Her pupils were slightly dilated, and he could smell her fear. She hid it well, but nevertheless it was there. He could see her accelerated pulse beating in her neck. Too bad . . . So tempting. Would love to take her out back and fuck her in the alley by the dumpsters. The woman gave a short nod, her face shut, mouth tight as if she’d read his mind. “Best I take you to our manager, Joseph. If you would follow me, sir.”
* * *
* * *
Kevin had been fast-forwarding through the security video feed from Saturday, March 20, two days ago, when Sarah’s vehicle had been spotted and towed. There were multiple cameras throughout the store, which meant a lot of footage to sort through. He’d been sitting at the store manager’s crowded desk in the back for a couple of hours, now. His shoulders were tense, his ass tired from the flight, the drive, and now this. He heard the scrape of a foot in his peripheral vision. He could see the store manager, Joseph, with his greasy strands of hair ineffectually combed over his bald, shiny pate hovering in the doorway. “How much longer do you think you’ll be?” It was a polite enough question, but Kevin could feel the man’s rising concern, his desire to have the use of his
workspace back.
Kevin didn’t bother turning around, hoping the man would take the hint and leave. “As long as it takes. I apologize for the inconvenience.” Like he really gave a crap, but no point in pissing off Joseph. He might demand to take a closer look at the badge, the search warrant, or call down to the LAPD for confirmation.
“It’s just, I don’t want to rush you, but I have orders to place, inventory tallies to do, and I am going to need access to my computer soon.”
“I underst—” Kevin was just about to drag his gaze from the computer when something on the screen captured his attention, a woman toward the far end of aisle eight. Her head was tucked down, but there was something familiar about her. It was more of an instinct that had him staring at her, as it was hard to make out details. The images were a little pixilated and a blurry black and white.
“You what? Sorry I didn’t catch—”
Kevin cut the manager’s question off with an abrupt wave of his hand. He leaned his face closer to the screen, backtracked, zoomed in, and hit play. And there she was walking down the aisle as if she didn’t have a care in the world. He watched her bend over and pick up a bag of something off the lower shelf.
“Flour,” Joseph said. He had edged closer to see what had caught Kevin’s eye. “Ten pound . . . white flour. Not whole wheat—that’s farther down.”
Kevin paused the tape, impatient irritation flaring as he swiveled in the cheap office chair and stared at him. “What in the world are you babbling about?”
“I . . . I . . .” The store manager blanched and took a quick step backward. “I like . . . uh . . . reading mysteries, suspense, crime fiction, and . . .” He shrugged, embarrassed. “Sometimes in the books, the most inconsequential details are the most important.” Once Joseph’s mouth started flapping, he seemed unable to stop it. “I don’t know if that’s the case here, but it looks like she picked up a ten-pound bag of flour. From where she’s standing, I’d say it’s a toss-up between Gold Medal or King Arthur.” Joseph tipped his chin toward the screen. “Is she the one you’re looking for? What’d she do? Murder? Robbery? Is she a con artist? A drug dealer on the run?”
No. She’s my lying, cheating, two-faced wife, Kevin wanted to bellow, but he didn’t, just bit out between clenched teeth, “Sorry. It’s classified.” He turned back to the computer and clicked play.
“I get it.” Joseph took a step back, jiggling the spare change in his khaki slacks. They watched in silence as Sarah continued down the aisle. She stopped again and put a smaller object into the cart. “Sugar,” Joseph murmured. “Five-pound bag.”
Kevin ignored him, kept his gaze trained on Sarah as she approached the overhead security camera. It was her. No question about it. The glasses obscured her eyes, the hair color was different, but that was the way she moved. That’s how she tilts her head . . . That’s her smile . . . On the heels of that thought, anger crashed white hot, like a bolt of lightning incinerating everything in its path, because as her image became clearer and clearer, one thing was inescapably obvious: she seemed happier, lighter than he’d ever seen her, and how fucking dare she.
“This is so fascinating,” Joseph chirruped. “You’d never guess that chick’s got the law on her tail. Looks like a frikkin’ Sunday school teacher. I’d tap that for sure. Bet she’s wild as all getup between the sheets.” It took everything Kevin had not to plow his fist into the dipshit’s face and rearrange his features.
28
“Hey, Mick.” The guard at the studio gate beamed at Mick. “Me and the wife already got the babysitter booked for the Thursday after next! Every morning while I’m eating my breakfast, I make another check mark on the calendar. Counting down until the big day!”
“Going to paint the town, huh? What’s the occasion, big birthday coming up? Anniversary?” Mick’s head was turned away from her, but Sarah knew he was smiling. She could see the creases fanning outward from his eye, the portion of his cheek that was visible lifted upward. Yes, the man swaggered around with a tough-guy veneer, but underneath his gruff growl, she could now discern the warmth and genuine goodness in his voice.
“Seeing Retribution, that’s what we’re gonna do! Opening weekend. The buzz on the street is it is amazing! The lines at the box office are going to be massive. I’m gonna bring folding chairs. The wife, she wanted to see some chick flick, but we know who’s the boss.” The guard laughed heartily, and then he tipped his hat back and peered into Mick’s car at Sarah. “Who you got with you?”
Mick glanced at Sarah. She could see his whole face now, and it was as if the cloud had moved on, revealing the full glory of the sun. “A friend,” Mick said, his gaze still locked on her.
Over Mick’s shoulder, Sarah could see the guard wiggle his eyebrows. “Nice to meet you, friend,” the guard said. “I’ll need some ID.”
She saw Mick’s eyes widen slightly before he turned his focus back on the guard. “Is that necessary? We’re going to be five minutes tops. Just picking up some work and heading back out.”
“Sorry, Mick.” The guard straightened and pushed his hat back in place. “Would love to accommodate you, but it’s not worth my job. The little lady needs a pass.”
“No worries.” Sarah dug in her purse and pulled her counterfeit ID out of her wallet, acting casual, feeling clammy under her blouse. She placed a polite smile on her face as she leaned across the center console and handed her fake driver’s license through the window.
The guard glanced at it. “Rachel Jones?” She nodded. “Just a minute please.” He took her ID into his booth. Sarah could feel tension radiating off Mick. Could see the guard typing stuff into his computer. He’s just a guard at the studio. Not a cop. It is highly doubtful his system is tied to the police. Logically, she knew this. Internally, she was freaking out.
“Sorry. I forgot about this,” Mick murmured. “Do you need us to leave?”
She gave her head a slight shake. “Should hold up,” she replied quietly, her lips barely moving. She kept her gaze nonchalant as she looked unseeingly through the windshield. “I paid enough for it. Besides, cars are behind us now. No way to go but forward.”
The guard printed something out, then returned to the window. “Here you are.” He handed her ID and visitor pass to Mick. “She should peel that off and stick it on her jacket. Have a good day, you two.” He gestured to the next car as the boom barrier lifted and Mick drove through. Sarah peeled the visitor pass with Rachel Jones scribbled on it in blue ink. She noticed her hands were trembling slightly as she stuck the pass on Mick’s jacket, which she was wearing. She shoved them deep into its pockets, hoping Mick hadn’t noticed as well.
He pulled into a parking spot, where his name was printed in large dark lettering on a white sign. Sarah unstrapped and was reaching for the door handle when she felt Mick’s hand alight on her arm. It was unsettling how the mere touch of his hand would cause such heat to course through her. “Yes?” She turned to face him. “Oh. That’s right, I’m wearing your jacket. Yeah.” She laughed. “That might make things a little awkward at the office. Sorry.” She peeled her visitor’s pass off his jacket, then reached for the zipper.
“No. Keep the jacket. You’re shivering.”
“People will assume—”
Mick cut her off with an abrupt wave of his hand. “I was thinking you might want to wait in the car.”
The guy was nuts. “I can’t really handle your office work in the car.” She unzipped, shrugged out of his jacket, and handed it to him. He seemed angry. Had jerked his head away, his jaw clenched, crossed his arms, refusing to take his jacket. Which was crazy, because seriously, she was not going to waltz into his office wearing the boss’s clothes. That would look bad, and she’d lose all credibility with anyone who worked there. “Take the damned thing.” She dropped it in his lap.
* * *
* * *
Mick braced himself and t
urned toward her. “Sarah. First. Put my jacket on. The rain made your blouse . . .” He waved his hand in the vicinity of her chest while keeping his gaze firmly fixed on her face. “I mean, it’s way better than it was, but you can still . . .”
Sarah glanced down and then her eyebrows shot upward. “Oh God.” She snatched his jacket and had it back on and zipped in record time. “Right.” Her face had gotten quite rosy. “You could have told me.”
“I just did.”
“What am I going to do? I can’t saunter in there wearing this.”
“Not only that.” He grinned. “Your nose is red—eyes, too. People will think I’m the heartless brute who made you cry.”
“That’s ridiculous.” He could see the beginning quirks of a smile teasing the corners of her lips. Lips he wanted to taste, to explore.
“Second. I’m not sure what PR and Peterson have booked for today. We’ve been doing a lot of press for Retribution. A couple of the actors were there when I left, so it’s possible media is in there.”
Her eyes widened. “Seriously?”
“Yeah.” He nodded. “Given what you’ve told me, it might be an issue. No need to tempt fate. I’ll go up, grab some work, cancel a few appointments. Be back in fifteen minutes tops.”
“Sounds like a plan.” She settled into her seat. The color of her eyes reminded him of lying flat on his back, staring up at the deep blue of a cloudless Nevada summer sky. Could almost taste the grit of dust in his mouth and hear the chirping of the grasshoppers. “You okay?”
“Sure.” He tugged his mind back to the present. “We’ll swing by the house, pack overnight bags, take a quick flight to Vegas, and do some sleuthing.”
“If possible, I’d rather not fly. Haven’t put my fake ID to the test yet. It might withstand the scrutiny, but then again, it might not.”
