by Sabrina York
“Ohh. An attempt on your life?” Her expression made her opinion clear. This was better. Much better.
“These guys grabbed me in Vegas and drove me out to the desert to murder me.” How odd was it to tell the story as though it was a…story? And how odd that in the telling of it, like this, with dispassion, it seemed to create distance between herself and the horror of it. She forced a smile. “Mason came charging in like an avenging angel—”
“He does that. He’s very brave.”
“And he saved me.”
“How romantic.” Lily tipped her head to the side and studied her. “Do you like him?”
Like him?
“Who?” Stupid question. She knew damn well who.
Lily’s expression made clear she could tell Pansy was dissembling, so she didn’t wait for her to ask again.
“I…do. I do like him. Very much.”
Her smile was blinding. Utterly blinding. “Good. Good. I saw the way he was looking at you and I thought… Well, it would be nice if he had someone. That’s all. He’s…been through a lot. He deserves… Well. He just does.”
Though she completed few of her thoughts, somehow Pansy understood what she was saying.
And she agreed.
Mason did deserve happiness. Love. Someone.
She only hoped that someone could be her.
It was at that moment that, with a running start, Lola took a leap of faith from the table to the counter where the pan of bacon lay, unprotected.
She made it as far as the edge, which she gripped with her claws; she clung there for one hopeful moment, before skittering to the floor.
Pansy could only hope it wasn’t an omen.
Chapter Ten
It was hard leaving Pansy, even though she was totally safe, surrounded by men he trusted with his life. It gratified him that she’d taken to Lily so quickly. And when his friend Drake arrived with Brandy—who was also pregnant-out-to-here, they seemed to hit it off too.
They all took a moment to tease Drake and Ryder about the potency of their sperm—just because it was the kind of thing guys did—but Mason couldn’t help feeling a pang of envy. Not that he’d ever wanted to settle down and have kids. Not that he’d ever imagined he would… But hell. The thought of Pansy, heavy with his child, staring up into his eyes with that look of utter devotion? Of knowing she was his and his alone?
Damn, that sounded good. Felt right.
He kissed her before they left. He intended it to be a quick buss, a reassuring peck, because everyone was watching, but he couldn’t pull off such nonchalance. Not that he didn’t know, beyond all doubts, he’d be seeing her again soon. But because this was the first time he was leaving her.
He didn’t expect it to hurt as much as it did.
Pulling together the equipment they needed for their meeting with Steven Bowles was easy, especially in this neck of the woods, populated with military types as it was. Eli had a buddy who specialized in communications, and he was able to wire them up with the top of the line electronics, Dane had a bead on body armor—which they’d all decided to wear—just in case, and of course, they all had their weapons and gear.
Sander had been able to tap into a GPS tracking app that was able to identify the location of Bowles’ cell phone. It was a relief to discover that he was already in San Diego—where the annual company retreat was to take place, rather than in his office in Los Angeles. That gave them more time to reconnoiter without having to make the drive up north.
They decided to approach Bowles when and where he’d least expect it. A private location, preferably indoors, to cut down on ambient noise on the recordings. They wanted his confession to be clear as a bell. His hotel suite was the best option.
Three of them would go in—Mason, Dane and Eli—while Sander acted as a spotter on the hillside across from the lavish hotel. Using an infrared scope, Sander tracked Bowles’ activities in his suite. He reported to the others via bone phones in their ears.
They were dressed casually, like tourists, in khakis and t-shirts, but each carried a duffel jammed with his gear.
With the exception of the hunger for vengeance roiling in Mason’s gut, it felt very much like a standard covert op.
Dane shot him a frown as they waited in the lobby by the elevators, trying to appear blasé. “Chill,” he muttered.
“I am chill.”
“You look like you want to chew rocks.”
Not a bad idea.
“Okay,” Sander’s voice crackled in his ear. “He’s alone.”
They nodded to each other and stepped onto the elevator. As soon as the door slid shut, they launched into action, dropping their bags, whipping out their weapons and strapping on their assault gear. In seconds they transformed from businessmen on a golfing vacation to an ominous team of warriors. The reflection in the mirrored wall of the elevator was impressive.
As the elevator continued to ascend, they stood at the ready, poised to attack, muzak floating around them in an easy-listening mélange.
The elevator dinged and the door slid open on the twentieth floor. They took battle positions and, hunkering down, flooded into the hallway. Thank God there was no one at the concierge desk. They might have shit a brick.
“Sit rep,” Dane barked into his mic.
“He’s in the bathroom. West corner,” Sander said with a lilt to his voice. “On the crapper.”
Eli huffed a laugh.
They skittered toward the double-doored entry to Bowles’ suite and paused, just for a second. Then, at Dane’s nod, Mason kicked open the door and they burst in.
Dane and Mason bolted across the spacious living room while Eli covered the entryway. With a blow that spoke to his ferocity, Mason kicked open the bathroom door and leveled his weapon on his target.
He blinked.
Not what he’d expected.
Steven Bowles was a handsome man, though he had a too-slick aura around him. He wore an expensive business suit—something Italian—and shoes polished to a shine that could probably be seen from space. But he was a slender man with sharp, delicate features and a bird-like neck. Mason wasn’t sure what he’d expected—some fashion-industry iteration of Dr. Evil, perhaps—but this guy was not that.
Bowles gaped at them, as though having a pair of burly be-weaponed SEAL-types crash in on him when he was taking a dump was a surprise. His lips worked and, incongruously, he said. “Excuse me? I’m in here.”
“Get up,” Mason snarled, waggling his weapon. And when Bowles hesitated, he roared, “Now!”
“What the hell is this?”
“Come on, Bowles,” Dane snarled. “Pinch it off and get out here. We need to have a chat.”
“A…chat?” Primly—a little prissily in Mason’s opinion—Bowles did what he had to do and stood, pulling up his trousers and fastening them. “Who the hell are you people?” he asked, as they herded him into the living room. He stopped short when he spotted Eli blocking any escape. Then he sighed and wandered to the sofa and dropped onto the cushions. “Well?”
For a man being faced with such an incursion, he didn’t seem very concerned. But then, there was a beading of sweat on his forehead. Maybe he wasn’t as collected as he appeared.
Dane propped his foot on the coffee table and laid his pistol on his knee, making sure it was pointed at Bowles. Bowles didn’t miss that fact either; his attention was locked on it.
“We’d like to share some information with you, Mr. Bowles,” Dane said in a glib tone. “A little tidbit we discovered in Vegas.”
Bowles’ lashes fluttered. He adjusted his cuffs. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Really? Because that’s not what we heard.”
“And what, precisely, did you hear?”
Though he was supposed to stay quiet, though he was supposed to let Dane do all the talking—this was his specialty after all, information extraction—Mason could not stay silent. “That you contracted the murder of one Pansy Hightower
.”
Dane glared at him, but Mason ignored him. He was far too occupied with Bowles response. His nostrils flared, his throat worked and a red tide rose on his cheeks. “I most certainly did not. Why would I do that? She’s my daughter.”
Mason snorted. The bastard was practically the same age as Pansy.
Dane shrugged. “Same reason you arranged to have her mother killed. And her aunt. You want the company.” Bowles opened his mouth to protest, but Dane didn’t give him time. “Look, we don’t give a shit who you’ve killed or what you’ve done. I could give a rat’s ass that your stepdaughter is buried in a shallow grave in the desert outside Sin City—”
Bowles straightened. He fiddled with his collar which looked a little tight. “Is she? Is she dead?” Was that a hopeful tone? Fuck. Mason’s fingers tightened into fists. He wanted to squeeze the life out of this fuckwad. Fucking fucker.
“You should know,” Dane purred. “You did hire the best. But they haven’t picked up their money yet, have they?”
Bowles head whipped around at the sneer in Dane’s voice. “I…they…what?”
“If you check with your middle man, Hester, you’ll see it’s true.”
Bowles paled. His lips worked.
Dane’s lips twisted. “Why do you suppose they haven’t picked up their money yet?” he asked in a musing voice, one that also made clear he knew the answer.
“Where…where are they?”
Dane’s smile was sinister. Oh. He was good at this. Very good. “Don’t worry. We have them…somewhere safe. They won’t talk. Unless…”
Bowles’ eyes narrowed. “Unless what?” A hiss.
Mason tried to clamp down on his excitement. It was hardly a blatant confession. But it was close.
“Unless you give us what we want.”
“And…what would that be?”
“Twenty grand.”
Bowles shot to his feet. “I don’t have that kind of money.”
“Oh?”
“Not on hand. Not in cash, for God’s sake.”
“Our informants tell us that you do. We’d like it in small bills, please. Twenties. Unmarked.”
Eli stepped forward and whispered something to Dane. He nodded and smiled at Bowles. “Oh right. And we want another twenty to keep our mouths shut about the mother too.”
“What?”
Dane shrugged. “You’ve been busy. Lucky for you we don’t have evidence on the aunt as well.”
Bowles began to pace the room, raking at his hair with long fingers. “This is blackmail,” he snapped.
Dane grinned. “Yeah, I think that’s what they call it.”
“And what if I don’t pay you?”
“Then the DA gets a package with the evidence.”
“What kind of evidence? There is no evidence.”
“Just the signed statements of the hit men you hired. And let’s be frank Steven—may I call you Steven?—they aren’t the sharpest tools in the shed. And Hester? Well, he’s a little brighter but still, easy to bend.”
“No way. No way would he betray me. He wouldn’t dare.”
“Maybe not…in normal circumstances. But, most men do spill their guts when they have a muzzle to their balls. You can’t blame him. No doubt he’ll deny everything of course, but how else would we know all this? How else would we know…everything?”
Bowles’ chin firmed. A disturbing light glinted his eye. “You don’t know everything.”
“Don’t we?”
He and Dane locked gazed for a long moment. Bowles was the first to look away. “Signed statements. Bah. That’s nothing.”
“It’s something, actually. You should read them.”
He bristled. “I have excellent lawyers—”
“There is the body in the desert. We know right where to find it. And a note from Pansy Hightower to her aunt expressing her suspicions that you killed her mother and she might be next… Pretty damning stuff.” Dane straightened and huffed a breath. “But hey. That’s cool. If you’re sure the DA won’t find this all terribly interesting, then ignore this little visit. Go back to your Malibu mansion and your teenage girlfriends and the company you stole from the family who built it. And Steven?”
“What?”
“Enjoy it while you can.” Dane shot him a devilish wink. “If it’s any consolation,” he purred. “You’ll look great in orange.”
“You bastards.”
“One week. Forty thousand. Small bills. We’ll contact you.”
At Dane’s nod, they backed out of the room, holding their weapons on Bowles, and then they hopped into the elevator, stripped off their gear and turned back into mild-mannered business men.
“Did you get all that?” Dane asked into his mic.
“Affirmative,” Sander responded.
“Do you think it was enough?” Mason would hate for Pansy to go through all of this and have Bowles walk free.
“Oh, I think it’s enough to start an investigation.” Eli clapped him on the shoulder. “I have a friend in the DAs office. I can encourage her to give it special attention.”
Dane cleared his throat. “Her?”
Eli blushed and stared up at the header. “Yeah. Her.”
“Anything I should know?” Mason teased.
Eli’s response was a low growl, but a smile hovered on his lips.
Chapter Eleven
It was such a relief seeing Mason come through the door that evening. Pansy hadn’t realized how pent up she’d been until she saw his face. She threw herself into his arms and clung. Just clung. It felt so right, holding him.
She felt so safe.
“How did it go?” Lily asked the question she should have. But she wasn’t capable of much at the moment. She had no idea why her soul was in such turmoil. Perhaps it was the fact she’d been worried about him all day, feeling helpless and useless and playing out one disastrous scenario after another.
Mason sat on the sofa and pulled her down next to him, with his arm around her shoulders. The others settled in as well. Lola pattered over and hopped up beside her, but to Pansy’s surprise, she plopped down on his lap rather than hers. He sent her a stunned look. And then slowly, lifted his hand to stroke the dog—but gingerly, as though he was afraid she might take it off.
She only growled a little.
“It went pretty good, considering,” Dane said, nodding as Lily handed him a beer.
“Did he confess?” Pansy asked.
Eli snorted. “He didn’t deny it. I made a couple copies of the conversation and sent one to the DA in Los Angeles, and another to a contact in the FBI.”
“You have a lot of contacts,” Mason said.
Pansy had no idea why Eli blushed. “I sent one to the authorities in Vegas as well. I expect we’ll hear back soon.”
“What’s the next step?” Pansy asked.
Mason’s hold on her tightened. “Getting you to the meeting. So you can cast your vote.”
She stared at him. “That’s days away.”
“With any luck, Bowles will be in custody and the point will be moot.”
“I wish I could reach my aunt, though.” She’d been trying all day and gotten nothing but voicemail.
“Maybe she lost her phone.”
“Maybe.” She forced a smile at Lily. It was a nice thought—though Aunt Catherine would have apoplexy if she lost her phone. But it was better than the alternative.
The conversation shifted then, thank heaven. Pansy was tired of worrying and chewing on her problems. It was fun to sit there and listen to the conversation float around the small living room. The men—all having been in the service, though in very different capacities—had a lot in common and Pansy enjoyed hearing them talk about their experiences.
They teased Dane mercilessly for being a Ranger and not a SEAL. One of the rhymes they sang to him—apparently they all knew it by heart—had her laughing so hard it made her sides ache.
I don’t go out with girls any more
I liv
e a life of danger
I sit at home and play with myself
Whee, I’m a Ranger.
There were more poignant moments shared as well, where they remembered buddies they’d lost or missions that had gone FUBAR.
They had a language, a culture all their own and while Brandy—the daughter of a Navy commander—and Lily seemed to fit right in, Pansy couldn’t help thinking it was a far cry from her way of life.
She had to wonder if she could be with a man who lived life on the edge, a man who took weapons to work as a matter of course, and dressed for the day in ballistic plates. But then she glanced up at Mason as he laughed at one of Eli’s jests, at his handsome face, the creases etched on his cheeks, the bright light of his eyes—and she knew she could. She could take anything, live any lifestyle…if he was there by her side.
What she didn’t know was if he could tolerate her lifestyle.
When the evening wore down and a battalion of “dead soldiers” cluttered the coffee table, Brandy and Drake stood. “We should be going,” Drake said with a wink. “Brandy needs her sleep.”
She snorted a laugh, but didn’t demur. She hugged Lily and then hugged Pansy as well. “See you tomorrow?” she asked, and Pansy nodded.
“I’d like that.” It was the truth.
The party broke up then. Eli and Sander pulled the long straws and headed off to Ryder’s spare bedroom, while Lily made up the couch for Dane. It was an unspoken understanding that Mason and Pansy would sleep in the motorhome.
While a motorhome was far from her ideal spot for romance, she liked that they would be private.
Well, semi-private.
Lola insisted on coming with them.
Rather than sleeping on the narrow mattress in the back, they broke down the dining table, which converted into a bed as well. It wasn’t huge, but at least there was room for the two of them.
The three of them.
As Pansy nestled in, facing Mason and leaning in for a kiss, her dog pushed between them and settled onto the pillow by his head.
