Ben's Wife

by Charlotte Douglas

  Mistaking her hesitation for despair, he had ached with love for her. “You’ve been through too much. Give me a few hours and I can arrange for a false passport and put you on a flight to Europe or—”

  “No.” Pressing her fingers against his lips, she silenced him. “I’m not leaving you. Let me finish what I started to say.”

  From beside him on the sofa, he tugged her onto his lap. “I’m listening.”

  “Dad is dead. Nothing we do to Lashner can bring him back.” She regarded him with somber eyes. “I want to make sure Lashner doesn’t sell Dad’s formula and cause the death of someone else’s father or husband or child.”

  “Discrediting the formula has been part of our plan all along,” he said.

  “But it’s come a distant third, after staying alive and convicting Lashner of my father’s death. We have to rearrange our priorities.” Conviction brightened her eyes and reddened her cheeks. “We have to find proof of the formula’s flaws before the meeting to insure that the board kills the sale.”

  Pride mingled with his love for her. For someone who dreaded taking risks, she displayed remarkable courage. Her bravery lay not in lack of fear but in her willingness to persist in spite of it.

  “I talked with the independent labs yesterday,” he said. “They all need more time to prepare reports with credible conclusions on the formula.”

  “How much more time?”

  “You mustn’t worry. Even if results aren’t available until after the board sells the formula, the facts will eventually cast doubt and stop production.”

  She shook her head. “We can’t wait until after the board sells the formula.”

  He’d had the same notion but wanted to hear her reasons. “Why not?”

  “Because if your board sells a dangerous formula, Chemco will be ruined. You’ve worked all your life building that company, and my father shared your hopes and visions for it.” She lifted her chin and eyed him with steely resolve. “Lashner is determined to kill us, but it’s time to stop worrying about ourselves. We should be seeking proof of the formula’s defects for the board, even if we die trying.”

  Had she read his mind? Since encountering Lashner at the country club yesterday, Ben had been planning to search Lashner’s house for just such proof. But not with Morgan. His plan was risky at best.

  At worst, fatal.

  “Lashner has armed guards, watchdogs.” He clasped her shoulders. “I can’t allow—”

  “I make my own decisions.” She broke from his grasp, sprang off his lap and faced him, arms crossed defiantly across her breasts, her faced flushed with resolve. “If I choose to risk my life breaking into Lashner’s house, who are you to stop me?”

  Your husband.

  The words died in his throat. Although they were legally married and had consummated that contract by making love until the early hours of the morning, once she no longer needed his protection, would she want to remain his wife?

  Only time could answer that question.

  He drew her closer in the cold interior of the Chevy. Without success, he had tried to convince her he should search Lashner’s house alone. Now all he could do was guard her with his life.

  In the car, they waited for darkness to cover their approach to Lashner’s sprawling Spanish-style mansion in its wooded setting on the edge of the golf course.

  “It’s almost time,” he said.

  She pulled out of his arms, withdrew a jar of black greasepaint from a small bag and scooped out a dollop before passing it to him. They smeared their faces and the back of their hands with the light-absorbing salve, then climbed out of the car.

  He turned her toward him in the darkness. “If anything goes wrong, run to the nearest house and call the police.”

  “Okay,” she said, “but shouldn’t we alert Detective Paxton beforehand?”

  “And make him a party to an illegal search so he can’t use anything we find in court?” Ben checked the reassuring bulge of the gun tucked in his waistband at the small of his back. “We’re on our own until we find evidence for Lashner’s arrest”

  “Ben?” Her fingers grazed his cheek in a whisper of a caress. “You’ll be careful?”

  “We’ll both be careful, just as we planned.” Only a maximum of self-restraint kept his dangerous desire under control. He brushed her lips in a fleeting kiss that tasted of greasepaint and her own unique sweetness. “Walk behind me. It’s rough-going until we reach the golf course.”

  Breaking a path through the undergrowth, he trudged through the trees with Morgan on his heels. The rustle of pine boughs, the crackle of palmetto fronds and the occasional snap of a twig marked their passing.

  After fifteen long minutes, they reached the edge of the fairway. Bending low, they raced across the well-tended green of the fifth hole to the thick shrubbery at the back of Lashner’s estate. Lights blazed from tall windows at the rear of the house and illuminated large rectangular patches of the lawn.

  With satisfaction, Ben surveyed the weakest link in Lashner’s security, his partner’s illogical refusal to install any barricade that blocked access to the house from the golf course.

  Ben fell prone behind a clump of azaleas, and Morgan dived beside him.

  “The woods at the front of the house might have hidden our approach better,” she whispered.

  “He’s concentrated his security at the front, with a wall and gate and an armed guard. Back here, all we have to outsmart are—”

  Furious barking interrupted him. Lashner’s pack of eight Dobermans had heard them, and the ground shook as the dogs advanced.

  “Don’t panic.” He threw his arm around Morgan’s shoulders, and they pressed their faces against the sandy dirt. “Just lie still.”

  “If they attack, can’t you shoot them?”

  “If the dogs attack, we’re dead, anyway. The guards will hear the noise and find us. If the dogs don’t kill us, they will.”

  Holding his breath, he prayed his plan would work. He had been a frequent visitor to Lashner’s house before his partner’s treachery, and the dogs knew his scent. Morgan was dressed in the jeans he’d worn that afternoon and one of his old jackets. He counted on his scent on her clothes, and the packet of meat scraps in their pockets, to quiet the animals.

  If he’d guessed wrong, the dogs would tear them apart.

  Deafened by the Dobermans’ clamor, he clutched Morgan closer as the pack surrounded them. A wet nose nuzzled the back of his neck, another his ankle, and a third thrust a nose between the legs of his jeans. Morgan’s muffled cry suggested she’d suffered the same indignity.

  He stiffened, ready to fling himself across her if the dogs struck, but, one by one, the canines fell silent, intent first on sniffing, then licking Ben.

  They remembered him.

  As he slumped with relief, a man’s shout at the dogs from the back of the house shattered the silence.

  “Wonder what spooked ‘em?” the man said.

  “Probably a damned rabbit,” a harsher male voice answered. “But they shut up so quick, they musta caught it.”

  “Should we call ‘em back?”

  “You heard what the boss said. He wants the mutts on guard until Wells and the lady are out of the way.”

  A door slammed, and everything was quiet except the dogs’ snuffling.

  Ben rolled slowly onto his back and burrowed into his jacket pocket for the bag of meat scraps. Beside him, Morgan did the same. The Dobermans, pushing and shoving, tails wagging, gulped the treats, then trotted away.

  “Ready?” Ben whispered.

  “Ready.”

  Scrambling on hands and knees, they reached the back of the house and hid behind the fronds of a low palm. Music and occasional bursts of laughter drifted from the front of the house. Lashner was entertaining again.

  “Perfect,” he whispered into Morgan’s ear. “With all that noise, nobody will hear us. Let’s go.”

  The unlocked back door opened into a mammoth kitchen, whic
h Lashner’s efficient staff appeared to have already cleaned after dinner.

  Morgan scanned the room and pointed to an interior door. “There.”

  Under the bright glare of fluorescent lights, Ben gazed at her in astonishment. “How can anyone look so gorgeous in oversized clothes with black gunk all over her face?”

  “Stay focused.” She grinned and pushed him toward the door.

  He cracked it open and peeked into the hallway. The passage was empty.

  “Move, fast!” He didn’t wait for Morgan. They’d spent hours earlier studying the detailed floor plan he’d sketched. She knew they were headed to Lashner’s study at the far end of the corridor.

  They bolted down the passageway into the study and closed the door behind them. A small brass lamp with a parchment shade cast a dim circle of light on a massive mahogany desk. The rest of the room remained in shadow.

  Following their plan, Morgan scurried behind the desk and began searching drawers on the left. Ben explored those on the other side. As they flipped through files and papers, neither spoke.

  When Lashner’s voice sounded in the hall, they froze.

  Morgan quietly closed a drawer and slipped behind a heavy velvet drapery. Ben did the same.

  In the pitch darkness behind the thick fabric, he reached for Morgan’s hand and strained to hear what was happening.

  The study door opened.

  “Have a seat,” Lashner said in an irritated tone. “I’ll pour you a brandy to calm you down.”

  The other person mumbled an unintelligible reply, and the leather of one of a pair of burgundy wing chairs rustled as someone settled on it.

  Glasses clinked on the sideboard, and liquid gurgled and splashed.

  “Here,” Lashner said impatiently. “Drink this and stop worrying. Everything’s under control, I tell you.”

  His companion replied with a harrumph of disbelief.

  “They’ll both be dead before dawn,” Lashner said. “It’s taken an army of private eyes and a fortune in bribes, but I’ve found where they’re hiding.”

  Morgan gripped Ben’s hand in the darkness. If hearing her own murder discussed surprised her, the calm pressure of her fingers didn’t convey her fright.

  “Good,” the other murmured.

  Ben couldn’t identify the speaker, not even by gender. He had guessed Lashner might have an accomplice, but had no clue to who the conspirator might be. Remembering Lashner’s sudden appearance at the country club, he wondered again if Rhonda Covill was in league with Rob.

  Lashner gave a satisfied chuckle. “My men forced Ben’s hiding place out of Tom Hendrix’s nurse. Threatened to harm her kids if she didn’t cooperate.”

  Shirley Wilder, Tom’s nurse, was a young widow, struggling to raise three children on her own. Lashner’s men had apparently terrified her. Ben had believed his disgust with Lashner had already reached its limits, but fresh revulsion swelled in him. Only strict self-control kept him from leaping from his hiding place and strangling the man.

  “When Ben and Morgan return to their cottage,” Lashner continued, “they’ll find a surprise waiting for them. Those two will never bother us again.”

  His guest must have looked skeptical, because Lashner explained, “There’ll be no trail leading back to us. My experts will make Ben’s death look like complications from his injuries. Morgan will simply disappear from Gulfside. They’ll dump her body in another state. Then we’ll sell the formula without opposition and reap the profits. All the profits. I’ll be out of the country, beyond the reach of the law before they notice the company accounts have been cleaned out. Your share will be deposited in a Swiss bank, and no one will be the wiser.”

  Silence fell in the room, and fearing they’d been discovered, Ben held his breath and clamped Morgan’s hand tighter until Lashner spoke again.

  “I’ll miss this house, this country, but I’ve always wanted to live on the Portuguese coast.” His ruthless laugh echoed in the room. “With Chemco’s money, I’ll live there in style for the rest of my life. Now, let’s get back to the party. Being gone too long will undermine our alibi for tonight.”

  Noises indicated the visitor had risen. Glasses clinked on the sideboard, and the study door opened and closed. Ben kept pressure on Morgan’s hand, holding her until he was convinced the room was empty.

  As insurance, he allowed several moments to tick by before he peered around the edge of the drape.

  Lashner was gone.

  Ben released Morgan, flung the curtain back and returned to the desk. Morgan joined him, and in silence they resumed their search.

  Tension, heightened by the danger of imminent discovery, intensified in the room. Papers rustled as he and Morgan skimmed through folders, replaced them and picked up others. Morgan’s sudden gasp of surprise announced her discovery, and her blue eyes glowed with excitement when she passed him a thick accordion folder.

  Ben scanned the file’s contents, a bound book of formulas and memos, plus several loose pages, then tucked the file into the waist of his jeans and zipped his jacket over it. “We’ve found what we came for. Let’s go.”

  Their previous luck held as they exited the house and crossed the lawn without an uproar from the dogs or an encounter with the guards. After crossing the fairway at a run, they plunged into the woods. Ten minutes later in the Chevy’s dark interior, they caught their breath.

  When his panting eased, Ben started the engine and entered the highway.

  “We can’t go back to the cottage,” Morgan said, “not with Lashner’s men waiting for us.”

  “I know a place to regroup.”

  “Good.” She raised no questions, displayed no wariness.

  At other times, he’d witnessed a glimmer of distrust in her eyes, and he didn’t blame her. Pretending to be Josh, he’d deceived and embarrassed her. She’d probably require a long time before trusting him completely.

  But time didn’t matter. After all, they had the rest of their lives together.

  Which wouldn’t be long, if Lashner’s men found them.

  Maybe they could nail Lashner first. He smiled, remembering the file beneath his jacket.

  “Is something funny?” Morgan asked.

  He glanced at her, and the headlights of a passing car illuminated the whites of her eyes. “We’re going to make quite a scene, walking into William Holton’s hidey-hole, looking like a SWAT team.”

  She pressed her fingers to her cheeks. They came away black with greasepaint. “I forgot all about this.”

  “There’s a box of tissues in the glove compartment. What they don’t remove, we can wash off. As I remember, the bar’s rest rooms aren’t far from the entrance.”

  She retrieved the tissues and cleaned her face. Then she scooted closer and wiped his cheeks with fresh tissues. Her breath warmed his face and her breast brushed his arm, reviving memories of their lovemaking.

  Out of nowhere, fear clutched his heart like a fist. She trusted him to keep her safe, but could he? Dumb question. He had no choice. He couldn’t live with himself if he didn’t.

  He turned into an almost-empty parking lot at the riverside bar and parked in the shadows at the rear.

  Later, with faces washed and twigs and leaves combed from their hair, Ben and Morgan sat at a booth. Her cheeks glowed where she had scrubbed away the greasepaint, reminding him of how she’d looked last night, flushed and sated against his pillow.

  He forced the distracting thought away, ordered coffee from the waitress and placed the folder from Lashner’s desk on the table. Morgan opened it, pushed back the sleeves of his too-large jacket and began to read, handing him each page as she finished.

  At first, observing her, he couldn’t concentrate. His clothes swam on her, but she didn’t seem to notice. Other women would have complained about appearing in public in such a get-up, but not Morgan. Her remarkable self-possession gave her such dignity that few would notice her choice of clothes.

  He turned his attention to th
e papers and began to read.

  When she finished the last page, she leaned toward him, excitement glittering in her eyes. “Everything’s here, including Dad’s memos on the formula’s flaws and his refusal to lie at Lashner’s request. They’re proof of Lashner’s motive for murdering Dad.”

  Ben pointed to several reports from a private investigator. “Looks like Lashner dug up personal dirt on Rhonda Covill and William Holton. He probably intends to blackmail them into voting his way.”

  “Their votes and his give him a majority. What about Terrence Appel?”

  Ben shrugged. “Either Appel was clean, or Lashner hasn’t received a report on him yet.”

  “Or he’s already sure of Appel’s vote. But the votes aren’t important now. Not if we can put Lashner behind bars.” Morgan heaved a sigh. “Think of the time we’ve wasted. If we’d searched Lashner’s study two weeks ago, we’d have saved ourselves a lot of trouble.”

  Bending closer until his face was inches from hers, Ben scowled. “Raiding Lashner’s house was an act of desperation. Luck is the only reason we got out alive.”

  Her delectable mouth settled in a stubborn line. “If we’d done it sooner, we could have been lucky then.”

  “No.” Ben cupped her cheek and eased the tension of her lips with his thumb. “We escaped tonight only because Lashner assigned the extra men who usually guard his house to wait for us at the cottage. Without that break, we wouldn’t be sitting here now.”

  She relaxed and smiled. “A lucky break that was long overdue.”

  Ben’s spirits lifted. Their long struggle was almost at an end. He collected the pages scattered on the table and stuffed them into the folder.

  “We should take this straight to Detective Paxton,” Morgan said.

  “Right. And as soon as Lashner is locked away, you and I are going to celebrate.”

  Her eyes sparkled in the dim light. “That’s the best offer I’ve had all day.”

  “There’s one other thing.” He placed his hand over hers. “Before I sat down, I called Mrs. Denny from the pay phone. She contacted Esther Clark earlier today.”

  “Did Esther say what Dad left for me?”

  He nodded. “The poor old woman was horrified she’d forgotten to give you Frank’s latest journal. She insisted on returning home, so you can pick it up tonight.”