Cold Target

by Potter, Patricia;

  But then there never would have been a sister. Her mother would have never known love, even as cruel as this one had been.

  She was beginning to learn the value of love. The glory of it. The joy. She knew it every time she looked at Gage. She wondered whether he felt the same delicious shivers up and down his spine when he looked at her as she did when her glance wandered his way.

  What would happen when the danger was over? When the partnership ended? When the adrenaline ebbed?

  She didn’t want to think about that. She wanted to know more about the man who had incited dangerous feelings in her mother and who had fathered her half sister.

  “How did you meet Mother?” she asked.

  “She and her friends came to my father’s tavern. They’d heard we had a great Cajun band, and basically they were slumming. Except for your mother. She loved the music. She didn’t laugh at the grandfather dancing with his six-year-old granddaughter.” He caught the look on her face. “Yes, children came to eat and dance. You have to understand. Cajuns are big on family. It’s the most meaningful thing to them.

  “Your mother fell in love with my family, with the music. The others got bored and decided to go. I had danced with her. I didn’t want to let her go. I offered to take her and her friend, Lulu, home.

  “Maggie and I fell in love that night. I thought she was the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen. You’ve heard of laughing eyes. I had, too, but I had never seen them until that night. She glowed with life and vitality.”

  His regret and sadness seeped through her. She remembered her mother’s unhappiness. Two young lives destroyed. Why?

  “And it was Prescott who framed you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And then someone killed him. So he obviously didn’t act on his own.”

  “He could have been killed for some other reason,” Gage interjected. “From everything I could discover, he had enemies. He was a gambler, for one thing.”

  “I could buy that if there weren’t so many other deaths that are related in some way.”

  But they were getting away from the subject she most wanted to hear about. Her mother. “How long were you and my mother together?”

  “Four months. Long enough to know we wanted to be married. My parents objected as much as I knew hers would. She wasn’t Cajun. She wouldn’t understand our ways. They wanted me to take over the tavern, but I’d never wanted that. I wanted to go to college and become someone important. Well, I became someone important, but not in the way I thought.”

  “Ah, but you have,” she said gently. “You’ve helped so many kids.”

  “Except my own,” he said. “Except my own.”

  After lunch, Gage asked her if she wanted to explore the bayou with him in the canoe. “I’ll take the cell phone. There’s not much we can do until DeWitt calls back.”

  “And Dom?”

  “I already asked him. He wants to make some phone calls. I think he needs some time to absorb everything.”

  She understood. It had taken her days to absorb everything. She couldn’t even imagine what it would be like to discover you’d had a daughter thirty-three years earlier. “Beast?”

  “Beast will stay here. I don’t think anyone knows about this place, but he sure as hell will let everyone know if there’s lurkers around.”

  She liked the idea of being alone with him. She needed to relax. She liked Dom but there was no question that there was an unease between them. She was the daughter of his love and probably his enemy.

  She watched as Gage dragged the canoe to the dock and nervously eyed it as he settled it in the water. She had never been in one, and she knew how fragile and easily unbalanced one could be. She was not good at balance. Neither was she good at grace.

  He must have caught her apprehension because he grinned. “Believe it or not, Beast has gone canoeing with me. If he can do it …” He left the sentence unfinished.

  Falling into a bayou full of alligators and snakes was not her idea of fun. But if Beast could do it, she certainly could. And the prospect of being with Gage in his territory was irresistible.

  He got in first, then held out his hand to her. The strength in that hand helped as she stepped in. His other hand caught her and guided her down onto a seat. For a moment, she feared she would tip the boat, and then she caught the balance.

  He sat down and handed her a paddle. “Just watch me,” he said with a lopsided grin that made her want to do anything.

  Beast looked dismayed from his spot on the dock.

  “Not this time,” Gage told him. “Take care of Dom. Guard.”

  The dog turned and trotted back to the shack.

  Gage put his paddle in the water and made what looked like effortless strokes. She watched him for several minutes.

  “You do the exact same thing on the other side. Try to match my rhythm.”

  Easier said than done. She leaned over and the canoe started to tip. She leaned in the opposite direction. She watched as he balanced the canoe. “Don’t lean,” he said. “Use your arms until you find the balance.”

  She tried again.

  This time the canoe moved faster. She found her rhythm and started to look around. Moss hung from trees rising from the water. Water flowers floated on the surface.

  She had never heard this kind of peace. There was the buzzing of insects, the call of a bird, the sound of the paddles, but there was a human silence. A breeze softened the heavy moisture-laden heat. The aroma of flowers and vegetation filled the air.

  The world and its dangers seemed a million miles away. She was flooded with a sense of peace as the canoe sliced though the waters. An alligator sunned itself on a bank. A bird sang its song. She understood now the lure of the swamp and the bayous, the sensuous feeling of timelessness.

  He turned and looked at her, his slow smile mesmerizing her. He knew that she was succumbing to the magic. “When the world gets too violent,” he said softly, “I come here. Nothing changes here. I imagine it was like this five hundred years ago. I always get balance.”

  It wasn’t a word she would have expected him to use. He’d always seemed more like an action person. Always in movement. Always restless. Here there was a peace about him.

  Layers and layers. How intriguing to explore them. He was, she decided, the most complex man she had ever met. She wanted to lean over and push back a lock of sandy hair that fell over his forehead. There was a sheen of sweat on his forehead and he had unbuttoned his shirt so the breeze could reach his body. In addition to being the most complex man, he was also the sexiest. And at the moment, he oozed sexuality.

  She almost dropped the darn paddle.

  Whether or not he sensed her feelings, he guided the canoe toward a piece of land that jutted outward. He hopped out and pulled the boat up, then held out his hand to her. She took it, her hand fitting in his so naturally. He pulled her to him, against him, and he kissed her.

  They had kissed before. They had made love before. But this was on an entirely different level. She felt the kiss through to her bones. It was tender and savage, passionate yet comforting, soothing. It was both demanding and giving.

  She leaned against him, absorbing the love and care inherent in every caress.

  She wished they weren’t standing in the middle of a swamp.

  His cell phone rang.

  She silently cursed the intrusion of modern technology in a place where time seemed to stand still.

  She heard his side of the conversation.

  “Yeah?”

  “You have to be kidding.” Not a question.

  “You sure about this?” A question.

  Then, “Public record now, right?”

  A pause. “No one will know where it came from. Thanks, buddy.” He snapped the phone closed.

  She waited for an explanation.

  “I told you about our floater. A man who was found in a bayou. We struck gold. A sample of DNA was taken. It matched up with a man named Carrick. So happened he wa
s charged with rape while in the service. The victim refused to testify but he was given a discharge and his DNA went on file.”

  “The name meant something to you,” she said.

  “He worked occasionally for Randolph Ames.”

  He punched in some numbers on the cell phone.

  “Sanders, it’s Gaynor again. Any luck?”

  She could hear the reporter sputtering over the line. It was clear he was very angry at being stonewalled.

  “Well, I might have something else for you.”

  She noticed he let that tantalizing morsel sit a moment before continuing. “Ask the Ames people if they know a man named Carrick. Accused rapist some years ago. Now a body in the morgue. A floater with no hands and no head.”

  He listened for a moment, then said with some relish, “Look in your own morgue for photos of State Senator Randolph Ames. You’ll discover Carrick in some background photos. Apparently worked as a chauffeur and bodyguard.”

  Meredith heard an exclamation from the receiver, then Gage said, “I don’t know if he knew or not. I’m sure you can find out. But you didn’t get it from me.” He snapped the phone closed.

  He turned back to her. His eyes were worried. “I don’t like the idea that Holly Ames is missing,” he said.

  She felt a similar panic. She’d heard enough to send chills down her back.

  He took her hand. “Let’s get back. I really want to talk to Ames. By the time DeWitt finishes with him, he’s going to be in a panic.”

  They paddled back without stopping along the way to gaze at birds as they had on their way out.

  As they drew closer, she saw Dom pacing the small, rickety dock, Beast beside him.

  Gage stepped out of the canoe as Dom tied it to the dock. Then Gage reached out and helped her from the boat.

  He turned to Dom. “What is it?”

  “They’re closing down my shelter.”

  twenty-nine

  BISBEE

  Holly worked on her latest creation, Belle the Butterfly. She had steadily increased her production, enjoying every single moment.

  She couldn’t remember when she had been so happy. Nor when Harry had been.

  She was finally beginning to feel safe. If Randolph hadn’t found her by now, he’d probably cut his losses and made up some plausible story.

  Now that she was concentrating on Garden Folk, she no longer went to the library every day. Instead she had invested in an inexpensive used computer. She still checked the New Orleans papers occasionally, but certainly not with the compulsion she had her first weeks in Bisbee.

  The increased amount of work had not diminished her joy in creating. She now had the pig, the butterfly, the frog, the ladybug, a whimsical turtle, and a snail. Each one changed, according to her mood and the piece of metal she used.

  It was the best of all possible worlds. She could watch Harry, and now he had the computer as well as the television, books and Caesar to keep him happily occupied. They went for a long walk every day, and that was their special time together.

  Doug had gotten into the habit of dropping by two or three times a week, always with food. He knew how much Harry loved tacos, and he could whip them up in no time while she put away her tools. Sometimes Jenny came and sometimes not, depending on her schedule.

  Doug and Holly would sit outside and have a glass of wine or beer and watch the sun set.

  He would leave then, realizing that she had to get back to work. He was the most undemanding, most patient man she had ever met. He just seemed to enjoy their company.

  It was frightening how much she looked forward to his knock on the door and how much she liked looking at his face. It was such a pleasant face. The sun had bronzed it. Intriguing laugh lines drew attention to kind and intelligent eyes and a mouth that smiled easily. The features were craggy rather than handsome, obviously carved by character rather than displaying the smooth good looks of someone to whom everything came easily.

  She had never heard him say an unkind word about anyone. She couldn’t remember Randolph ever saying a kind one.

  Every day, she got nearer and nearer to telling Doug her story. Each time, she caught herself before the words spilled out.

  She knew she would. That one day she would trust him enough to tell him. And that day she would be putting her life, and Harry’s, in his hands.

  The phone rang, and she picked it up.

  “We’ve received three orders for your Garden Folk,” Marty said happily. “Also received a call from a gallery in Florida asking about them. They want to purchase ten but they also want to know something about the artist for marketing purposes. Apparently it’s an intimate type of place that likes to personalize everything.”

  “What is there to say?” Holly asked cautiously.

  “Maybe something about how you became inspired to create them.”

  “I’m not a writer.”

  “Why don’t I write up something and let you look at it?”

  “Okay,” Holly said without enthusiasm. “But I don’t want anything about Harry or myself.”

  “I’ll be sure to concentrate on the creativity part,” Marty said. “Can you and Harry come to supper tomorrow? I’m having another little gathering to celebrate. About the size of the one we had, when you first came. Bring Doug.”

  She hung up before Holly could reply.

  Holly slowly replaced the phone in the cradle. She knew that Bisbee now considered the sheriff and her a couple. Several comments had been made at the store where she shopped and at the library. Are you and Doug going to the concert in the park? Are you and Doug going to the opening of the new restaurant?

  She saw the love in his eyes. She felt it in the way he touched her. In his infinite patience. She wondered if her eyes reflected her growing feelings for him.

  Perhaps it was time to tell him. But then what, as a lawman, would he have to do?

  Would it be fair to him? She would never know until she told him. And they couldn’t continue as they were. He wanted more. He needed more. He deserved more.

  Perhaps tonight …

  NEW ORLEANS

  Everything was unraveling. The damn reporter wouldn’t give up. He had even turned up at campaign headquarters and barged into Randolph’s private office. The last question had been like a dagger aimed directly at his heart. “Do you know a man named Carrick?”

  Randolph wanted to say no. But that was one of the few things he couldn’t hide. He knew Carrick had been in some photos with him. Damn the man for his incompetence.

  Carrick had assured Randolph he could do the job without outside help. After all, Mrs. Ames could be no kind of threat. She hated guns. She hated violence. She was a timid mouse.

  So what in the hell had happened in his house?

  He certainly hadn’t expected what he’d found. A dead man in his wife’s bedroom. Both his wife and son gone.

  He’d immediately called his father-in-law, who calmed him down and told him what to do. Carrick would have to disappear. As would Holly … once she was found. Immediately.

  But Holly had proved more elusive than anyone had thought.

  And now Carrick had been identified.

  Randolph hoped he didn’t look as rattled as he felt. DeWitt had just barged into his office with a breezy, “Thought you were in Baton Rouge, Senator.”

  Since that was what Randolph had told the staff to tell the reporter, he felt cornered. “The meeting was over earlier than I thought.”

  “And what meeting was that, Senator?”

  The best defense is a good offense. That’s one thing he’d learned well from his father-in-law. “I didn’t know you had moved over to the political beat.”

  “I haven’t,” DeWitt said. “But you interest me, Senator.”

  He couldn’t help but be startled by the pronouncement. “Why?”

  “Your wife, for instance. No one has seen her for a while.”

  “I thought my office had explained,” Randolph said stiffly. “Sh
e’s looking after a sick friend.”

  “But why is she incommunicado? Rather strange, isn’t it? I mean, she is the wife of a man who wants to be a congressman. I assume she knows there are obligations.”

  “I’m the candidate, not my wife,” Randolph said. “Her private life is her own.”

  “The voting public likes to know the family situation of its candidates. Now, if she’s left you for some reason, I think they have the right to know that.”

  “She hasn’t left me.”

  “Rumors say otherwise.”

  Randolph recognized the trap. “It hasn’t been a problem.” Of course he’d heard rumors and had been asked about Holly’s absence by members of the press, who’d had the sense to back off when he and his father-in-law stared them down while delivering the story. But he knew that all too soon they would not be appeased and he would have to come up with Holly, her death, or a more convincing story about her absence. Visiting a sick friend. He’d not done too well coming up with that old saw.

  “One phone call could clear this up,” DeWitt said.

  Randolph pondered the problem. He’d always had good press. He’d always courted reporters, taking them to dinner, to lunch, dropping news tips in their ears. He couldn’t afford for them to turn against him now, and DeWitt was an important news figure in the city.

  He could, of course, call the editor and ask why DeWitt was now covering a simple congressional campaign, but that might raise someone’s antenna. Better to get a woman to call and pretend to be his wife.

  “I’ll try to arrange a call,” he said.

  “What about right now?”

  “Her friend is dying. She is distraught. I’m not going to call and have her interrogated without some warning.” He leaned forward in his seat. “I’ll tell you something off the record. Holly is shy and sensitive. She doesn’t like the political life. I’m sorry to say she doesn’t care for reporters and has always avoided them. The only way I could convince her to accept my candidacy was to promise she would not have to be a public figure herself, that she could continue to raise our young son with privacy. I don’t intend to break that promise,” he finished righteously.