by EC Sheedy
"That"—he gestured at the overloaded barrow—"looks like a good alternative to the gym."
She grunted in response, tipped the wheelbarrow, and shook the last of the soil onto the pile. That done, she wiped her forehead with the back of her hand, which gave him a good look at a strong, finely muscled, tanned arm. She didn't waste any time picking up the shovel and digging into the hill of dirt. "You were up and out early," she said, not looking at him. "Lots of energy for a man whose light was on all night."
"You have a curfew around here?"
"No. I don't sleep much. And I like to keep an eye on the place. We've had occasional trouble with town kids coming through." She stopped long enough to point toward the dock. "They like midnight canoe rides."
He followed her gesture and looked out over the jewel-like lake, its surface silvered under the autumn sun, its dock home to a dozen or so canoes and rowboats. "So do I, with the right person." It occurred to him that Dana would love this place.
When he looked back, Addy was leaning on her shovel, studying him. "And who would that be? Your wife, girlfriend, or what's that other term, 'significant other'?"
He let the wife reference drift through him, and the usual void opened up. He forced himself up and out of the emptiness. It was easier than usual, and he wasn't sure how he felt about that. "At the moment, none of the above," he said, adding, "the only 'significant' woman in my life right now is standing in front of me." He looked toward the lake. "You interested in a canoe ride?"
She didn't blink. "Are you... flirting with me?" She looked at him as if he were six years old and had said his first curse word.
"Taking a stab at it." He rubbed his chin as he felt a grin take shape on his mouth, not the usual good-for-all-occasions twist, but a real smile.
"You're wasting your time. I'm unflirtable," she said matter-of-factly and went back to work, spreading a shovelful of dirt as if it were a tablespoon of cereal.
"There are men who'd take that as a challenge."
She looked up sharply, warily. "Are you one of them?"
"How about I leave you wondering about that and go back to work?" He glanced down. Redge was scraping lightly at the soil, preparing himself for a deeper, more serious excavation. "Before my dog destroys all sign of your work in progress."
He collared the dog and headed for his cabin.
"Mr. Harding?"
He turned back. "Obviously when it comes to flirting, I forgot rule number one—get on a first-name basis. The name's Cade, remember?"
She nodded but looked uncomfortable. "Cade, what do you do, exactly?"
"I thought I mentioned it. I write."
"Yes, but what do you write?"
"Right now? A series. What they call young adult. Targeted to teens, mostly."
She frowned. "You write teenage stuff?"
She didn't look impressed, and he didn't expect her to be. He wasn't so sure he was, either. "I wrote a book about a character called Zero a couple of years back, a street kid turned crime buster. It worked, and the publisher wants more."
Her frown turned skeptical. "What do you know about kids, especially ones who spend time on the streets?"
"I write fiction. I don't have to know. I make it up as I go along." Old joke, but usually enough to satisfy a nonwriter's curiosity, and he had no idea how she'd react to the rest of his resume. He'd have to think about that. "And the streets hold a lot of stories, especially for kids. And a fascination."
She cupped her hands over the top of the shovel, rested her chin on it, and looked thoughtful. "You make it sound easy. But I think it would be hard to make a book sound... true enough for kids. They can spot bu—what isn't real from a mile off."
"You're right, which is why I avoid the B.S. Talk about life on the streets as it really is, hard and dangerous." As you very well know.
Her lip twisted upward into the slightest of sneers. "And this Zero character of yours comes along to save the day for all those dumb street kids?"
"Street kids aren't dumb—at least not many of them. Most of them wouldn't be on the walk if someone threw them a lifeline. They're more confused than anything. All those surging hormones, alien feelings, peer pressures. Maybe some bad breaks tossed in the mix. Add to that a lot of them got the booby prize in the parent contest." He stopped, knew he sounded too much like the prof he once was. Hell, next thing you know he'd be citing stats. "It's tough being a kid. Always has been. Even harder now, I think."
She'd had those blue crystal eyes of hers locked to his like twin lasers, her expression growing more intense as he spoke. "You like kids, don't you?" Her words were shaded with amazement.
"Yeah, I do. Especially teens. They're fun, wide open to life, and they all think they're going to live forever. What's not to like?"
Her expression still thoughtful, a smile briefly softened her sober expression. "You must write very good books, Cade Harding."
He walked the few steps back to where she stood. Time to change the subject, time to remember why he was here, time for him to stop talking and her to start. When he got closer, she straightened. "And you've given me a compliment, Addy Michaels. And I, being a male who comes with the standard, overly developed ego, officially take it as a return flirt." He lowered his head until their eyes met. "So how about one of those midnight boat rides the local teens are so keen on? I'll bore you with my literary aspirations—the amazing adventures of Zero Nash—and you can tell me all about you."
She went stone still. "There's noth—"
"Nothing to tell? Definitely a cliché. And definitely not allowed."
She took a step back. "You're weird."
"But in a good way?" He lifted a brow.
"I'm not sure yet."
"If you let me buy you dinner, you can get 'sure.'"
"I don't go out for dinner." She started to dig.
"But you do eat."
"Straight out of the microwave, every third Thursday in May." She kept on digging. "You could try again then."
As brush-offs went, it left him little recourse. Addy Michaels, aka the Wart, intended to keep to herself.
He did have one ace up his sleeve though, and tonight he'd pull it out.
* * *
Bliss watched Beauty pull up to the parking area for registration at the best hotel in Sacramento, get out of her red Lexus, and walk in. A few minutes after that, a bellman came out with her keys, opened her trunk, and took out her baggage.
He guessed she'd tired of the roach motel circuit.
When the bellman disappeared inside, bags in hand, Beauty came out. She covered her eyes to look into the setting sun and scanned the street both ways. He hunkered down in his seat, but not far enough that he couldn't see her say something to the doorman before crossing the check-in lanes and heading to—
What the hell...
He dropped below sightline.
The next thing he knew, she was knocking on his window.
Fuck. She'd made him. Found him cowering in his cheap rental car like some kind of two-bit Peeping Tom.
She rapped again. Bliss gathered up some brain cells—and some cool—and hit the down button. She put both hands on the door.
"Don't even think of getting out." She pointed toward the doorman, who was standing by a marble pillar watching them closely. "I told him you were an ex-boyfriend, that you were stalking me, and that if you got out of the car, he was to call the police immediately." She tilted her head. "You got that?"
He laughed. "The cops don't bother me, baby, but they'll sure as hell bother you." And send him back to prison for more years than he cared to count for skipping the state while under parole, but no need to tell her that.
"Yeah, well, if the cops don't bother you, you sick creep, this damn well should." She turned sideways, slid a compact piece out of her tote. Pearl handle and all, a nice little girly gun. Making it no less lethal.
"Now that's cute. You planning to gun me down while that guy in the long coat over there"—he lifted his c
hin toward the hotel entrance, the watching doorman—"plays witness and takes notes?"
"No. As a matter of fact, I want you alive, Bliss. Very much alive. What I'm doing is taking control of the game. And this," she lifted the gun slightly, "is my good luck charm. You? You lay a hand on me and I'll blow your dick off—piece by piece."
"Oh, I'm so scared." He really didn't like the look in her eyes. "And, baby? This isn't all about that honey-dipped pussy of yours, it's about money. Remember." He lifted his hand, rubbed his thumb and index finger together. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the doorman straighten. He pulled his hand back, gripped the lower part of the steering wheel.
"You'll get your money." She stood now, took a step back from the window, fixed her eyes on him. "Gus is bringing it. I told him we needed a quarter of a million dollars and you'd be out of our lives for good. Matter of fact, we'll throw in an airline ticket—to Antarctica."
Vanelleto. He was right, she did get in touch with him. Fantastic. He tried to stem the rush of adrenaline. "Vanelleto giving me money? Gotta love that." He shook his head and smiled. "Bastard would rather put a bullet in my head."
"Who the hell wouldn't?" She gave him a cold smile.
"But now that I think about it, moving doesn't come cheap." He met her gaze, his own as cool as he could make it. If Vanelleto offered a quarter of a million, there was probably plenty left in the strongbox. "A half mil, in cash, and I'm history."
"That's a lot of money."
He looked at her crotch, made a loud smacking kiss. "If your boyfriend, Gus, wants me to stop dreamin' about that every night, he'll pay."
"You know, after you, Bliss, I could never look at another man without remembering how truly tiny your penis was. Smallest one I've ever seen. And I've seen a lot."
"Bitch."
"Now I'm going into that fancy hotel—with its nice secure rooms—and take a bath, wash you away. Then I'll make some calls. Gus isn't easy to find. It'll take a while." She spun on her heel.
"Don't you want to know where to find me?"
She gave him a filthy look. "You want your money, you'll stay right where you are. Chasing my tail—like always." With that, she walked away and didn't look back.
"How long?" he yelled out the window.
She kept on walking.
Bliss slammed his palm against the steering wheel—pissed off, hard as a rail, and pulsing with excitement. He needed to figure things out. Half a mil. Shit. Hell, he should have said a million. Still, this was turning out better than he planned.
Through the windshield, he watched Beauty go into the hotel, say something to the doorman, and slip him some cash. He checked his watch, almost four p.m.
He turned the key in the ignition, slammed the car into gear, and headed out of the parking lot.
The way he figured it, while she took her bath and made her calls, he'd make one of his own. This thing was taking longer than he thought. He needed a few bucks to tide him over.
Thank God for Grover. No half million there, but a convenient piggy bank all the same.
Chapter 9
Grover parked his car on the street and walked up the driveway to Susan Moore's posh house, his hands sweating, his nerves jumping.
In his job, most of his days were spent visiting rat holes on the lower south side where his kids lived—off and on—with parents who couldn't see past the whiskey level in the bottle on the kitchen table, or the needle full of poison they planned to ram into their arms.
Grover hated them all. Useless junkies. The world would do itself a favor if it tossed them, and their addictions, behind a chain-link fence. Let them rot there with a mountain of heroin or crack just out of reach as added torture. Maybe that way they'd quit ruining their kids' lives and self-destruct.
Like he should have...
Again he looked at the beautiful home, the wealth and safety it represented.
If he hadn't placed Josh Moore with Belle that day, the boy would have grown up here, been loved and cared for, had nothing but the best.
Grover's chest deflated, and he stifled the urge to turn tail and run. Like it or not, he was no better than the junkie parents he reviled. His sin was no lighter than theirs, because as he'd learned to his unending sorrow, there was no addiction baser than the passions of love.
He rang the doorbell, heard the rich chime of the bell inside the house. He swallowed the nerves tingling in his throat and pulled in his gut. Much as he enjoyed this beautiful home and the woman in it, he didn't want to be here, start the pretense all over again, but he had to keep his eye on things, especially Harding. If he connected with Bliss...
He swallowed again when he remembered the message on his business voicemail.
"Hey, Wayne. Guess who? I'm out—but I'm guessing Sandra already told you that bit of news." He chuckled, sounded pleased with the threat his call to Sandra implied. "But I'm short on cash, so I'd appreciate you floating me a loan. Right now I'm checking up on a mutual friend of ours, which puts me on the road for a time, but I'll call to set something up. Western Union maybe." Then a pause, the prod of a white hot poker. "Had a nice chat with the little woman, by the way. Didn't quite get to going over old times, but there's always next time. And the job, Grover, how's the job going? Talk to you soon, buddy."
He'd expected the call, the reference to his work, had even got some cash together for his blood money, but the "mutual friend" reference troubled him. He hoped it didn't mean what he thought it did.
Between hearing Bliss on his voicemail and being unable to reach Cade Harding, Grover was wrecked. Bliss was trouble enough, but Harding, with his probing eyes and endless questions, was a dangerously loose cannon. Who knew what he'd turn up?
Which was why he was here, he reminded himself, to get a line on that cannon, and get what information he could. No way would Harding find anything incriminating in the files he'd given him, and thank God Bliss had skipped before Cade could talk to him, but it made sense, considering what was at stake, to be extra careful.
Stan opened the door, his smile warm and immediate. "Grover, how are you? Come in, come in. Susan and I were about to have lunch. You can join us. She'll be so pleased to see you."
"I don't want to intrude." Lunch. His stomach leaped at the thought of food. Sandra had given him half a grapefruit and black coffee, and he hadn't had time to so much as grab a donut since. He'd been too busy tearing a malnourished four-year-old from the arms of her crackhead mother.
Stan stepped aside, waved him in. "No intrusion at all. And your timing is perfect. We've had some good news."
"Good news?" His every nerve jumping to alert, he stepped into the entry.
"Very good news. At least we think so." He gestured to the hall, which Wayne knew led to the kitchen.
Years ago, he'd spent many hours at this house, consoling Susan, offering his help. His endless, soothing lies. They'd become friends. And knowing her stubborn dedication to finding her grandson, he'd made sure to nurture that friendship, dropping in occasionally to touch base, keep abreast of things. Wayne followed Stan through the short hall. "You're sure my timing isn't inconvenient," he said.
"Not at all. You know you're welcome in this house anytime. God knows, Susan is grateful for all you tried to do."
"Unsuccessfully," he muttered, as always uncomfortable with Susan's gratitude, his endless duplicity. He hated to think about what he done, what he hadn't done, and what fate had befallen Susan's grandson because of it.
"You worked harder to find that boy than any detective in Seattle." He put a hand on Grover's shoulder. "Now, come and eat with us. If our gratitude isn't enough, maybe I can tempt you further by telling you Susan has made a pasta salad big enough for a not-so-small army. And... a peach pie."
Grover rubbed his belly. "That's the closer, Stan. Lead on."
Stan chuckled, and Grover followed him down the hall to find Susan in the kitchen. It always surprised him that, with her money, she did her own cooking. Years ago, he'd remarked
on it, and she'd told him the kitchen was the only place she relaxed—there and with her tiny roses. One winter, she'd given him a rosebush to take home to Sandra, its pink buds just breaking into flower.
For the rest of the evening, he'd answered questions about Susan Moore: how much money did she have, how old was she, was he having an affair with her. When she was done with the questions, she took scissors to the vibrant little bush and cut it to bits. Then she'd turned on him. He'd never taken her a gift since. Too risky.
"Wayne, what a pleasant surprise," Susan said when she spotted him. She came to him and hugged him hard, the dish towel in her hand swinging across his back. "It's been too long."
It had been too long since he'd been warmed by a woman, taken in the comfort of their soft, magical bodies. He returned the hug, drew her affection in deep where he could savor it later, then let go. He held her from him. "You're looking wonderful. This man treating you right?" he said, forcing a smile and glancing at Stan, who loomed over them like a giant oak.
"Yes, he's treating me fine." She smiled, wiped her hands on the dish towel, and set it on the counter. "Sit down, both of you," she commanded, gesturing at the table. "I'll get the sandwiches and salad."
When they were all seated, she said, "Has Stan told you?"
"He mentioned some good news." Afraid Susan's good news would ruin his appetite, he took a bite of his sandwich—simple ham and cheese, loaded with mayo, perfect.
"We've heard from Cade," she said.
The bread lodged in his throat, and he took a swig of water, shifted back in his chair. "Where is Cade? I've called him a couple of times to see how he's doing and don't get either an answer or voice-mail."
She rolled her eyes. "Doesn't have voicemail, or a cell phone. The man's a Luddite."
Stan laughed, dug for more salad. "Hardly. He simply likes to control who he talks to and when. Nothing wrong with that."
"Anyway"—she waved a hand—"it doesn't matter what he is or what he does. He's found one of the girls."
