Countdown

by Carey Baldwin

  “You said your wife shot you. Do you have any idea why your bride would want to hurt you?” Spectacles asked.

  “And you are?” Tommy made his tone polite before asking the obvious and completely sincere question, “Shouldn’t you people be getting me to a hospital or something?”

  “I’m Inspector Brousseau. I was having dinner at the Hôtel De Plage Dauphin.” He pointed down the beach. “I heard the commotion and saw the crowd from the terrace dining room. As for your second question, I’ve summoned an ambulance. It should be here shortly.”

  Tommy scratched his head. “Inspector Clouseau. Why does that name sound familiar?”

  “I’m Brousseau. Jacques Brousseau. Not Clouseau from The Pink Panther.” A pained look came over the man’s face. “And yes, my first name is also Jacques, like in the films. You’re not the first to make the joke.”

  “I’m not trying to be funny, here. I think I have a concussion or something.” That was half true. He still couldn’t fully remember what had happened to him, but he’d heard the inspector correctly the first time. Tommy simply wanted to see how hard it might be to knock Brousseau off balance, and it had proved to be no challenge at all. It was going to be simple to put one over on the fellow. From what Tommy had heard there were virtually no murders in Tahiti. The inspector had likely never even investigated one before, so how would he solve a murder when one occurred?

  Which it would . . . just as soon as Tommy found a way to get his hands on his lovely bride, Rose.

  Chapter 6

  Tuesday

  Hôtel De Plage Dauphin

  (Dolphin Beach Hotel)

  Tahiti Nui

  Spense puffed out one cheek and debated the most polite way to say “get the hell out of our bungalow.” It was after ten p.m. and the inspector as well as the two gendarmes who’d been on beach patrol earlier that evening still hadn’t left. Caity smothered an exaggerated yawn, for what seemed like the hundredth time, but the gentlemen didn’t seem to be taking the hint.

  Brousseau pushed his spectacles up and flipped a page in his notebook, his pen poised and ready. “So then, let’s review what it was that made you think the bride was in danger. You said that was the reason you raced into the ocean in the first place.”

  Spense reached out his hand to the inspector for a good-bye shake. This would make the third time he’d answered the same inquiry. “It was mostly gut instinct. I’m sure you’ve had a few of your own. Thanks for agreeing to take our statements here in our hotel room instead of down at the station. Caity and I appreciate the courtesy, but we’ve said all there is to say. It’s been great meeting you. Good luck with the case, and let us know if—”

  Ignoring Spense’s extended hand, the inspector said, “No. No, I haven’t had any.”

  Caity went to the door and opened it. It had been a memorable day, and Spense intended to make it an even more memorable night. Judging by the look on Caity’s face and the way her foot tapped impatiently as she held the door, they were in accord on that point.

  Brousseau stood his ground.

  It wasn’t that the inspector was dim-witted, Spense thought, he simply didn’t intend to leave before he was good and ready. The problem was Spense was ready enough for them both.

  “I say I haven’t had any gut instincts regarding attempted murders. Do you know why that is?” Brousseau asked.

  “I’m guessing because you haven’t handled an attempted murder case before,” Caity answered.

  “Exactly right. And there are American citizens involved in this situation and you are the FBI.”

  “We’re on leave,” Spense said. “We came to Tahiti to get married, not pad our résumés. We have no jurisdiction in this case. Is there an old phonograph in here? Because I think I hear a broken record playing . . . no, wait . . . that’s me.”

  “But if I invite you to assist, informally, I’m sure your superiors wouldn’t object. And you’re already involved. You’re both eyewitnesses. I’m not asking you to oversee the investigation. I assure you my men are quite capable.”

  “No one doubts that. And the answer is still no.” Apparently there was only one way to end this. Spense turned his palms up and attempted a joking tone to soften the blow of his next words. “So will you please get the hell out of our bungalow?”

  “If you don’t mind, I’m going to take my leave.” Caity sent a smile to each man in the room, and then, without giving anyone time to protest, disappeared into the other room—Spense hoped it was to slip into something more comfortable.

  Brousseau slapped shut his notebook. “Isn’t the FBI supposed to be eager to overrule the local police? I must say I’m disappointed you’re not living up to what I’ve seen in movies. But we’ll carry on without you if you insist.” He turned to his men. “You two will remain on hotel property long enough to interview the personnel at the desk and restaurant and housekeeping of course. Find out if they’ve overheard any arguments between Tommy and Rose Preston and make sure they know to alert us right away if they spot Rose.”

  He turned back to Spense. “It’s very cozy that you and Dr. Cassidy are staying at the same hotel as our newlyweds.”

  The news flash hardly surprised Spense. After all, the couple had gotten married on the beach attached to the hotel, just as he and Caity planned to do. “We’ll keep an eye out if that’s your point. You think Rose might come back for Tommy to finish the job?”

  “Not if she has a brain in her head. But you never know. Which is why we offered him a protective detail.”

  “Sounds like a good idea.”

  “Not to him. He adamantly refused the offer.” The inspector shrugged. “Are you sure you won’t reconsider giving us a hand?”

  “Can’t do it.” Spense offered to shake again, and this time Brousseau took him up on it. “We’ll keep our eyes open, and we’ll be available for any new questions you think of, but I’m afraid we can’t get involved beyond that, either formally or informally. It was a pleasure, sir. Wish you the best.”

  Caitlin hummed “Hard Day’s Night” under her breath. Her shoulders felt lighter than they had when she’d woken up this morning. Today hadn’t gone quite as she’d hoped, but then again, she’d been expecting something to go wrong. To her way of thinking it was better to have gotten the trouble over with. Surely a near drowning billed as an attempted murder was enough to satisfy any bad mojo that might be following her around.

  From here on out, it should be smooth sailing.

  Still humming, she drew back the curtains to reveal a breathtaking view of the South Pacific Ocean, moonlight burnishing its surface into smooth silver. Next she opened the sliding doors, welcoming the sweet smell of paradise into their overwater bungalow, and stepped outside. Behind her, she heard footsteps padding across the wooden floor. She turned and looked up at Spense, just as he ducked to avoid the fringe from the thatched roof at the terrace entrance. “Did I ever tell you that you’re my hero?”

  “You’re in a lyrical mood,” he said.

  “Got a song in my heart. Nothing wrong with that is there?”

  “Not a thing.” He joined her on the terrace, and together, they walked to the edge of the deck.

  “I thought they’d never leave. They did leave didn’t they?”

  “Yes. Want to go for a late-night swim?” Spense asked, rattling the ladder that led down into the ocean.

  This was the most amazing setup she’d ever seen for a hotel. Luxury bungalows climbing out of the water on stilts—nothing behind them except ocean, and to the side—half a football field between them and the next bungalow—truly a private paradise. “I think I’ve had enough water for one day.” Not to mention she’d just changed into a satin negligée, and she had something other than swimming in mind. She leaned back against Spense’s chest, and he kissed the top of her head.

  Happiness spread over her like a warm blanket.

  “So go on. Tell me more about how I’m your hero.” He whipped his T-shirt off over his head, t
hen flexed. “Is it because of the way I swam into danger and saved a man’s life today? Because, honest, I couldn’t have done it without your help on the way back in.”

  “Liar.” She tilted her face up and touched his lips with her index finger, imagining tasting them in the very near future. She faced him, her eyes traveling over the tanned skin of his powerful torso. She laid her palm on his arm. “Nice guns, by the way. But, no, I wasn’t talking about your daring rescue. I was referring to what you told Inspector Brousseau when he asked for our help with the investigation.”

  “You mean no?”

  “You’ve never been braver. And I’ve never heard a sexier word.”

  His gaze probed hers like he was trying to mind meld with her. At last, he said, “I gave you my word, and I meant what I said. This is our time, Caity. Nothing, not an attempted murder, not a fugitive bride, not even a dogged French police inspector is going to stop me from making you my wife in front of our family and friends and the preacher—”

  “Tahitian priest.”

  “At the appointed time and place—on the most beautiful beach in the world, with the most beautiful woman in the world.”

  “Sounds like a plan to me.” She thought she detected a flicker of guilt in his expression but maybe that was just the moon bringing out the catchlights in his eyes. “It’s the right thing to do. We have an obligation not just to ourselves, but to our moms and your brother. Then there’s Gretchen. They flew all this way. And you’ve already saved Tommy Preston’s life. That ought to be enough. We’ve done our duty.” Any reasonable person would agree.

  They both turned to look at the king-size bed inside the bungalow, with big pillows and soft lighting, a gauze canopy billowing in the breeze. The ambience in this place could convert anyone into a hopeless romantic. If only all those depressing French philosophers had convened their annual meetings in Tahiti there’d be a lot less angst in the world.

  “You don’t need to convince me.” He swept his hand in an after-you.

  “It’s arrogant to think we’re the only people capable of solving a crime.” She eyed the bed, but her feet remained inexplicably planted on the terrace. Maybe she was the one who felt guilty for turning down the inspector’s request.

  “Well, I wouldn’t say arrogant. Brousseau’s trying his damnedest to reel us in. It isn’t like we’re trying to butt in on his territory.”

  “If the locals don’t have experience, then all the more reason for them to handle this case on their own. Brousseau seems sharp to me—and persistent. We could barely get him out of our living room. And since no murder took place, only an attempt . . .” But here her voice trailed off as she thought about the fact there was a fugitive still out there. Preventing a murder was more important than solving one after the fact. That was one of the main things that had attracted both her and Spense to profiling.

  And the case was intriguing—one of those she’d dub a fascinoma. In spite of Tommy Preston’s statement, and in spite of being an eyewitness to the crime, she hadn’t yet decided whether it was the bride or the groom—or neither—who was the innocent victim. One minute they’d appeared so happy, and the next . . .

  When the couple had disappeared beneath the water, to Caitlin, it had all seemed an accident. Then, when she’d seen them struggling in the water, she’d assumed the bride was the victim. And that wasn’t Caitlin jumping to a stereotyped conclusion. She was a profiler, and profilers believed in science, facts, numbers. Statistically, a man is far more likely to commit a violent crime. And if the plan was to make it look like an accidental drowning, and the gun was a backup, which was about the only thing that made sense to Caitlin, why would a petite woman think she could defeat such a large man in an underwater struggle?

  Caitlin made a scoffing noise in her throat.

  If she needed a surefire way to get rid of Spense, luring him into the ocean for a wrestling match would not be her method of choice.

  On the other hand, there was no disputing these facts: It was the groom who’d nearly drowned—if not for Spense he’d be lying in the mortuary instead of the hospital under twenty-four-hour observation. And it was the bride who’d fired a gun, and then swum, like an Olympian, to a nearby motorboat and fled the scene. “I have to admit I’m more than a little curious about how this will all end up.”

  Spense lifted her in his arms, carried her inside, and deposited her on the bed. He sat down beside her and slipped a finger under each strap of her negligée. “And I have to admit I’m more than a little curious about where your tan line ends.” He flicked his fingers and the straps fell from her shoulders, revealing just enough of her décolletage to satisfy his curiosity. Only he didn’t seem satisfied, not yet.

  His eyes roamed hungrily over the tops of her breasts, making her shiver.

  “You cold?” His voice held a low tingle. “I think this calls for skin to skin contact.”

  With a single tug, the satin dropped to her waist. Spense gathered her against him, his bare chest hard where hers was soft. “I love you, Caity.” As he whispered the words, he guided her down to the bed and crawled on top of her, his weight pinning her to the mattress, but leaving her room to breathe.

  “Love you more.” Already, she ached to take him inside her. “Now, s’il vous plaît.”

  “No,” he growled.

  “There’s that sexy word again.”

  He trailed his hand between her breasts, and then lower, pushing the gown off of her hips. Somewhere along the way, his pants disappeared. She closed her eyes, reveling in the sensation of his slick, hot skin sliding against hers, the sweet smell of the island mingling with the musky scent of their desire.

  His mouth on her.

  Hers on him.

  Hands crossing paths as they pleasured one another.

  She became completely lost, aware only of this man in her arms until a sound that didn’t belong—a floorboard creaking in the night—intruded on her bliss.

  Spense’s arms tensed, then his body flattened, spread-eagle, over hers. “Don’t move.”

  She couldn’t, even if she wanted to. Not with nearly two hundred pounds of FBI muscle on top of her.

  The floorboard creaked again.

  Her heart shot to her throat.

  Spense’s arm lengthened, and she knew he was trying to reach his Glock. She also knew he’d left it on the coffee table.

  “Freeze or die,” ordered a female voice.

  Sounded like the intruder was at the foot of the bed.

  Despite Caitlin’s heart thudding loudly enough to wake the couple in the next bungalow, the irony of this was not lost on her.

  So much for no more bad mojo.

  Caitlin could guess who their intruder might be, but from her position she couldn’t see anything except Spense’s shoulders and the ceiling. She understood he was using his body as a shield, to protect her, but there was a problem. “P-please, let him roll over.” With great effort, she managed to croak out the words. “I can’t get enough air.”

  “No,” Spense and the woman said in unison.

  When Caitlin tried to get her next breath, a weak, whistling sound filled the deathly silence in the bungalow.

  “Roll off of her, but take it easy,” the woman said.

  “I’m fine where I am,” Spense answered.

  “I said get off of her.”

  A thunk, like the sound of someone tapping a pistol sounded, magnified a thousand times to Caitlin’s ear.

  Spense lifted his chest. Thank goodness. She drew a much-needed breath.

  “I’m gonna lift one hand and then flip onto my back.” Spense spoke slowly but moved fast. Before he’d finished his sentence he was beside her. In a sudden change of heart, he’d decided better to be facing the enemy.

  Caitlin quickly glanced around the room, taking in the scene.

  A slender young woman, looking to be in her early twenties, with her hair pulled back into a wet braid, and clad in a corset, crouched at the foot of their bed in a W
eaver stance.

  Their fugitive bride.

  The compact pistol she held out front was trained on Caitlin, and trembling.

  The room was dimly lit, but the woman was close enough that Caitlin could see streaks on her face, maybe dirt.

  Maybe tears.

  Against all reason, and in spite of the fact that the intruder held them naked at gunpoint, a wave of empathy rushed over Caitlin.

  What terrible trouble would drive a woman—she was barely more than a girl really—to do what this one had?

  What might motivate a bride to carry a gun on her wedding day—to shoot her groom on what should’ve been the happiest day of her life?

  And why come back to their bungalow, in the dead of night, and risk being caught? This couldn’t be coincidence. Caitlin wasn’t sure how the woman found them but it had to have been by design.

  More streaks appeared on the young woman’s cheeks. No doubt about it now. She was crying, and her body shook from cold or fear or both. Since she was dripping wet, Caitlin assumed the woman had climbed the ladder that led from the ocean onto the terrace in the back of the bungalow.

  “Hands up. Both of you!”

  They raised their arms in the air.

  Spense kept eye contact with the woman. “Your husband’s alive. Not hurt badly so you don’t have to—”

  “Shut up.” The bride’s eyes darted from Spense to Caitlin and back.

  Spense was right, with a good lawyer the woman might have a way out of this mess, as long as she didn’t make it worse by killing someone.

  By killing them.

  Caitlin’s empathy evaporated. “May I cover myself?” She didn’t give a damn that she was nude. But she needed this woman to see them as people, not objects. She needed to appeal to her humanity.

  “I said shut up. And do not move.” The woman swung the pistol, aiming it back and forth between Spense and Caitlin.

  Chapter 7

  Tuesday