by Riser, Mimi
“You needed one,” he said grimly.
“But nothing major like a license. Just a friendly little business contract to keep things straight between us.” Sprawled belly down on the desk, propped up on her elbows, she rested her chin in her hands and blinked. “It was your idea.”
“The hell it was.”
“Okay, if you’re going to nitpick, technically I guess it was my idea. But you inspired it. Didn’t you say I should consider this a business deal? Carlotta, by the way, thought I should make you sign a prenuptial agreement, assuring me custody of the boys in the event of a divorce. But this is so much simpler and more honest. It gives us nice neat terms spelling out the payment to be received for services rendered, and no messy divorce to worry about.”
No marriage either. She’d agreed to nothing more than being his fiancée. Fiancée, for godssake. And a temporary fiancée at that. Just a “trial engagement” period. Three months to “see how things go,” Molly had said. If either of them wanted out at the end of that time, they’d part company with no muss, no fuss. But she’d keep custody of the boys. And he’d lose everything.
Shit.
Why the hell had he signed it?
Because the little witch had out-bluffed him, that was why. When push came to shove – after the knee incident on the stairs – and Tyler had threatened to send her packing if she didn’t marry him, she’d shrugged and said:
“Fine. I’ve offered you a reasonable compromise – more than you deserve. If that’s not good enough for you, there’s nothing more to say. Go ahead and ‘send me packing.’ If I stay here under your dictatorial terms, I’ll be no good to the boys, myself, or anyone else.”
Then she’d turned and walked away.
He’d watched her go five…ten…fifteen steps, expecting her to stop with each one. Then twenty…twenty-five steps, and he was actively praying she’d stop. On the thirtieth step, he’d lost it and run after her.
And seen the relief on her face when he spun her about.
And known in that instant he’d been conned.
But he’d still signed their contract – and maybe not so much because she’d almost left, but because he’d seen in that split second how much she wanted to stay. A dangerous woman, this Molly Leigh.
Tyler frowned as she sat up and swung her legs over the edge of the desk, letting her bare feet dangle in the air. “Remind me never to play poker with you.”
“Spoilsport.” She stuck out her tongue at him.
Big mistake.
In one swift move, he rolled his chair forward, grabbed her behind the knees, and hauled her off onto his lap. She landed with a gasp, facing him, straddling his thighs.
“Don’t stick it out unless you’re planning on using it,” he warned.
“Who says I didn’t intend to?”
The words came out breathy, pure provocation. Her naughty T-shirt taunted him, and her braid hung over her shoulder, like a golden bell-rope just begging to be pulled.
Let’s ring some chimes…
He curled fingers around the silken plait and slowly, steadily, tugged her face toward his. Her hands slid up over his chest and shoulders and around his neck.
“Lady, you are really asking for it.”
“So what are you waiting for, Mr. James?”
“Tyler, damn it.”
He dropped the braid to grip the back of her head, and ground his mouth against hers – hungry, demanding, a mating of lips and tongues and breath. Molly met him with equal force, and the whole world suddenly rocked with one earthquake of a kiss. Pulses pounded, bodies pressed close—
A small voice sounded from the doorway.
“Aunt Molly?”
The kiss froze.
Tyler stiffened, and not in the good way. The kids were supposed to be in bed, asleep.
Molly moaned against him, then shoved back and scrambled to her feet, pulling herself together so quickly, Tyler’s head spun.
Or was that the chair?
The back thrust of her dive off him had knocked it careening across the floor. He stuck out his foot and braked to a sharp halt against the printer and fax table behind his desk, then sat there a dizzy moment, letting his breathing slow and his heart rate return to normal. The digital readout on the fax machine, he noticed through a semi-daze, registered the time at 11:58 PM. Almost the witching hour. Why did that thought send a weird chill inching down his spine?
Because it had been a roller coaster of a day, and he was both tired and wired. His nerves were on edge, that was all. He slouched into the chair, rubbing his temples.
Carlotta and company had retired to the guest wing of the house an hour ago, and the boys had been tucked into the suite across from his over two hours before that. Molly had stayed with them a long time, doing whatever women did with children at bedtime. Tyler had looked in to say goodnight, and retreated with frostbite. Funny how he’d so hoped the boys would like him. Now he’d be happy if they would just speak to him.
The problem must be his fault, because they seemed friendly enough with everyone else they met. A little too friendly in some instances. The swim lesson had been one thing, but he hadn’t liked what he’d seen later of their easy interaction with the rest of Carlotta’s crew. They ought to be more wary of strangers. The twins, once they got over their initial shyness, followed people like puppy dogs and seemed to view everyone as a potential playmate. Except for him, of course.
He glanced at the doorway to see both of them sobbing in Molly’s arms while she worked on calming them enough to tell her what was wrong. Tyler stayed out of it – they wouldn’t appreciate his help – and worked on not feeling jealous of all the cuddles the little boys were getting. Maybe they’d had matching nightmares or something. Tyler remembered what those were like. God knew he’d had plenty when he was small. God knew he still had them, though they seemed to hit more when he was awake now.
Like the one earlier this evening when he’d walked out of the boys’ suite and into his own – and found Bambi waiting for him. In his bed. Naked. Gag. The woman was still a hot tamale, he supposed, but his tastes had changed. He couldn’t stomach even thinking about her kind of fare anymore.
Thank God Barry had shown up to help. The guy had radar for things like that. It had taken the two of them to get Bambi out of there, and the nightmare had been accomplishing it quietly. The boys were just across the hall, for chrissake. Not to mention Molly. Who knew how she would have reacted to seeing him with an unclad ex-wife?
Jealous, dare he hope?
Nah, Tyler really hadn’t wanted to find out that way. Better just count his blessings that he’d ditched the ex and been alone here in the office that adjoined his bedroom when the new fiancée finally appeared. To begin her part of their contract, the “rendering of services” part, she’d said.
Molly had gone from virgin to whore in a matter of hours. It set his teeth on edge. It made no sense. He’d offered to make her his wife. Why would she want to be anything less? There was something wrong with this picture. Something was up. And it wasn’t him, unfortunately.
“Tyler?”
Her voice cut into his brooding – cut like a knife – something in her tone he’d never heard before.
Fear. Not annoyance, not anxiety. Real fear.
The weird prickling he’d been feeling turned icy, and an eerie old rhyme popped unbidden and unwanted into his mind.
By the twitching of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes…
“What is it?” Somehow Tyler managed to keep the fear out of his own voice. He didn’t know there was anything wrong, after all. He was just a chronic worrier, as Barry enjoyed pointing out. And Barry, as all knew, was always right.
“Jeremy and Josh say Stevie isn’t in his bed. They woke up a few minutes ago and realized he was gone. So are Fluffy and Fang,” Molly said.
At the same moment, a beeping sounded from the table next to Tyler, and a fax started to come through. He stared at it, unblinking, and saw the
numbers of the time-date display shift to 12:00. Midnight. Why did that scare him?
As the fax rolled out, and he read the big block letters on it, he knew why, and knew his fear had nothing to do with the hour. A premonition perhaps of the message he’d get at midnight?
He didn’t really believe in premonitions, but he believed now he’d been right to worry about kidnappers.
“Ty, don’t go paranoid on me. The boys are fine,” Barry had said on that subject.
Barry had picked one hell of a time to be wrong.
Chapter 10
The Blue Room…the Blue Room…
Was it still called the Blue Room? How about the Cotton Candy Room? Barbie’s Dream Boudoir?
Molly ran a shaking finger down the list of numbers she’d found by the phone in the boys’ suite. Imagine having an in-house telephone system – just like a hotel, only without the switchboard operator. She’d be shocked and amazed by it later, when she had the energy. Right now all her energy was focused on keeping the contents of her stomach in her stomach. One of her boys was gone. Kidnapped! Good Goddess, she was going to be sick…
The Blue Room! There it was on the list.
Thankyou-thankyou-thankyou…
Fighting back nausea, she punched its number into the phone. Carlotta picked up on the second buzz.
“Molly? Are you all right?”
No, she was horrible. And Carlotta must be psychic.
“How did you know it was me?” Her voice quivered so badly, Molly scarcely recognized herself.
“There’s a display on the phone that tells you what room the call is from. But I’d have guessed even without that. Tyler called me a moment ago, sounding…too calm. When he’s that cool, I know something is wrong. But he wouldn’t tell me what. Will you?”
Molly took a deep breath before answering. She had to get a grip on it or she’d upset the twins even worse than they already were. The boys were glued to her side, gone clingy again, and she didn’t blame them for it one little bit. She was feeling pretty clingy herself, but the only one she had to cling to at the moment was Carlotta. Blame Tyler for that.
She cleared her throat, and when she spoke this time, sounded almost normal. She’d always known that college acting class would come in handy someday.
“Um, something’s come up, but I can’t explain on the phone. Could you come over here? Please? I need a favor.”
Carlotta hesitated for a few breaths, and then, “Of course. Give me just a moment.”
A background conversation sounded – in several languages. Carlotta must have put her hand over the mouthpiece, but that rich baritone voice did carry, didn’t it?
Well, I’ll be damned…
“Carlotta? Is that André with you?”
“Mmm, yes.” One could almost see the cat-grin that went with the reply. “Don’t let the pink boots fool you. As I believe I’ve mentioned, André might not look it, but he is very much the…traditionalist.”
Soft laughter rippled over the phone line, ending in a sudden surprised squeal. André must have just done something “traditional.” And got his hand or face slapped. Molly heard the smack, but it sounded more playful than painful.
“Not now, André, I have to leave,” Carlotta fussed. “Ai dios mio… All right, but not without your pants. Hurry and dress… No, I don’t know if you’ll need your saber.” More laughter. “But later I’m sure I can find a use for your broadsword, mi amor.”
A bit breathless, she returned to Molly. “Sorry, chica, I hope you don’t mind, but he insists on coming with me. You are, after all, his family now, as he sees it. He wants to help. Do you need us to bring you anything? A little brandy perhaps, to calm your nerves? I know where Tyler keeps the good stuff.”
It would help more if she knew where he kept the keys.
Molly’s eyes flashed to the door. “Um…you wouldn’t happen to have a pick handy, would you? The skunk has locked me in.”
* * * *
Barry Baker glared at his boss over the office desk.
The boss glared back. Tyler had never felt so betrayed, never wanted to kill someone as much as he did now. But the someone wasn’t really Barry, even if it appeared that way judging by the sparks flying between them.
“Ty, you are too angry for that to do anything other than make more trouble. Put it away. Please.”
Barry spoke quietly and distinctly, the very softness of his tone making the command impossible to ignore. He was so tricky that way, knew all Tyler’s buttons and how to push them, knew that shouting only made him dig in his heels. And Tyler knew he knew it, too, knew exactly how Barry was playing him. But Tyler still acquiesced, because he also knew Barry was right – as he almost always was. Besides, he’d said please.
A desk drawer slid open, and an automatic pistol was carefully, if reluctantly, returned to its resting place.
“Thank you,” Barry said. If he was tricky, at least he was polite about it. He held out his hand. “Now please give me the key.”
“Don’t press your luck.” Tyler locked the drawer with a vicious twist and pocked the key. Politeness was overrated sometimes. So were guns, for that matter.
He stared down at the sheet of fax paper on his desk. The original must have been written with a black marker. Thick brazen letters stared back at him, mocking.
HELLO MR. JAMES. IT’S MIDNIGHT. DO YOU KNOW WHERE STEVIE IS? I DO. IF YOU WANT TO KEEP HIM ALIVE SEND MOLLY LEIGH TO THE DUGOUT IN 1 HOUR WITH YOUR DIAMIONDS. NO COPS. NO GUARDS. AND NO YOU! DO LIKE I SAY AND I’LL SEND MOLLY AND STEVIE BACK SAFE. FUCK WITH ME AND I’LL SEND THEM BOTH BACK IN PIECES. IT’S YOUR CHOICE. YOU HAVE 1 HOUR TO MAKE IT. I’LL BE WAITING. AND WATCHING.
So will I, you crud.
Tyler’s fingers itched.
“When I find the asshole who sent this, I won’t need that damn pistol. I’ll take him apart with my bare hands.” No idle threat. A stint in the Marine Corps in his early twenties had shown him how.
Barry moved around the desk to peer over Tyler’s shoulder at the message. “If it’s who I think it is, I’ll help you.”
He knew how, too, having served in the Marines with Tyler. It was where they’d become friends – and a big reason why they were friends. Facing death together and saving lives does that to some people, especially when two of the lives saved are each other’s.
The desk chair skidded back, and Tyler rose to his feet. “I know who it is.”
A double-dealing private investigator who loved to write fax memos in black marker.
And someone else, too, since the creep likely had an accomplice. That was the worst part of all this, the part that stuck in Tyler’s gut like a dagger blade, twisting. The kidnapper had to be working with someone inside the house to have gotten Stevie out of it. No way could he have broken in himself, especially not after dark. The nighttime security was too tight. The guard dogs would have raised an alarm, if nothing else. The bastard might have slipped in earlier, hiding among Carlotta’s crowd, but she generally kept close track of her people, and she hadn’t noticed any strangers hanging about. Tyler had already called her to check on that.
Too many signs pointed to an accomplice, and they all pointed the same way. The timing and wording of the ransom note, the delivery instructions… Put it together with a certain person’s abrupt change of attitude, and the signs did more than point. They spelled out the accomplice’s name.
“It’s George Farrell,” he said. “And…” The knife twisted in harder, making his voice rasp like a rusty hinge. “And Molly.”
* * * *
Carlotta, unfortunately, didn’t have a lock-pick handy. An impressive assortment of knives, yes, but no picks. Stocky, barrel-chested André, however, turned out to have legs of steel, and those cowboy boots, despite their color, packed a wallop. One flat-footed kick, and the locked door popped open.
“Good thing I brought him,” Carlotta said, preceding him into the suite. “He does have his uses.”
Molly blinked furiously
as his flash hit her three times in lightning succession. Sheesh, you’d think she’d be used to this by now, wouldn’t you?
“Magnifique! Such expression! The first shall be ‘Cinderella’s Surprise,’ the second, ‘Damsel In A Daze,’ and the third I shall call—” André stopped, his dark brows knitted together in intense thought. “Hmph! I have no idea.”
His shoulders heaved with a massive shrug, and he flourished his hands in the air. “Ah well, perhaps I shall leave it untitled. Life needs a bit of mystery, no?”
A bit, maybe, but tonight was laying on the mystery with a trowel.
One hour to decide… Just like Tyler had told her. Karma could be a scary thing, couldn’t it?
Moving awkwardly with Jeremy and Josh clinging to her, Molly angled past André for a quick glance into the hall. The door to Tyler’s suite, directly opposite, was still closed. She’d heard someone – Barry, possibly – join him in there shortly after he’d locked her in, but no one had left the suite yet, and hopefully no one had noticed the thud of André’s hot pink boot breaking her out. She’d better hightail it while she could. It was 12:10. The minutes were sliding through her fingers like sand.
Thank Goddess she knew about the deadline. Thank Goddess for bold block lettering and perfect vision. She’d been able to read the ransom note from behind Tyler before he swept it off the fax table and slapped it facedown onto his desk. Not wanting her to see it?
Why?
He hadn’t given her much chance to ask, had he? Hadn’t offered any explanations on anything as he’d hustled her and the twins out of there and into here.
Well, he was a man of few words, wasn’t he? The all-action type. He might simply have been feeling the press of time, might have been playing it close-lipped in a misguided, macho attempt to spare the “weaker sex” any further anxiety. Considering the delivery instructions in the note, he might have shut her in to protect her. Then again, that hadn’t been just anger at the situation she’d seen in his eyes. It was almost as though he’d been… Angry with her?
