Good to Be Bad (Double Dare Book 1)

by Patricia Ryan

  So, Candy was safe. But what about Emma?

  You’ve made me nervous. I hate being nervous.

  Me, too, Emma thought. And I’m sure as hell nervous right now.

  She locked both locks on the front door, then slipped the chain on. Then, feeling like an idiot, she dragged a straight-backed, wooden kitchen chair over to the door and wedged it under the doorknob for extra protection.

  Finally she went to the intercom and buzzed the doorman. “If anyone comes to visit me—anyone at all—don’t let him up. Buzz me.”

  “Will do, Ms. Sutcliffe.” It was the big, oily, pencil-mustache guy—a surreal hybrid of The Hulk and Gomez Addams.

  If the doorbell rang with no warning from the doorman, it meant either someone had slipped past him or Ronald had gotten curious as to the whereabouts of his Porsche. If the bell rang, she would ignore it.

  Despite her precautions, Emma knew she was too anxious to sleep tonight. She itched to pick up the phone and dial the police, but Mac’s image of a watery death for her mother kept coming back to torment her. The prudent option was to sit tight for the time being and see what unfolded... and hope Mac didn’t feel threatened enough by her to “use lethal force.”

  Here she was, panicking at the prospect of becoming a murder victim, when, if things had gone right, she’d be celebrating the return of her mother. Instead, events were getting more convoluted just when they should be winding up. She needed to get a grip, to think the situation through and figure out what was happening here. She needed to make a list—or rather, to add to the one she’d started yesterday. And she needed to chill out with a little tranquilizing aquatherapy.

  Deciding to kill two birds with one stone, she retrieved the sheet of writing paper with the list from her tote bag, ran a hot bath spiked with Zara’s Midnight Magnolia oil, stripped, pinned her hair up and settled in.

  For a long time she tried to study the list, to ponder the chain of events involving the ray gun and Candy and Mac, but her gaze kept gravitating down to the little doodle at the bottom of the sheet—Gage’s drawing of the chaise longue in his hotel room.

  He’d sketched it lightly and quickly, but captured it perfectly; its graceful curves looked sensual, almost womanly. It looked like much more than a simple piece of furniture.

  “Shark! Shark!”

  Emma sat up and looked around frantically, cursing when she realized she’d left the phone in the bedroom. She dropped the sheet of paper in the water and quickly snatched it out, but not before the ink blurred, fuzzing not only the words, but the beautiful little drawing—her only real remembrance of Gage.

  Dismayed, she crushed it in her fist, leapt from the tub and marched into the bedroom, soaking wet. She grabbed the phone off the nightstand and stabbed the Answer button. “Yes?”

  “Emma?” It was Gage. His voice sounded distant, although he was obviously speaking up. In the background she heard the muffled din of voices, including a P.A. announcement “Can you hear me? I’m at JFK, so it’s kind of—”

  “I can hear you, but not well.”

  “Listen, I had to talk to you again, make sure everything’s okay.”

  “Everything’s peachy. Mac called.”

  There was a heartbeat’s pause. “Is your mom...”

  “She’s okay. He’s holding on to her, though. He’s got some scheme he calls ‘phase two.’”

  “I’m sorry, I’m having trouble hearing you. He’s got some scheme?”

  “Forget it, I don’t understand it myself.” No point would be served, she decided, by telling him that she’d spilled the beans about knowing Mac’s identity.

  “Is she okay, do you think—your mom?”

  “For the time being, yeah.”

  A longer pause. “I miss you already, Emma.” Despite the bad connection, the soft Dixie rumble of his voice sent a surge of longing coursing through her. This was agonizing.

  She’d always heard that a clean break was best when you split up with someone, and now she knew why; the pain would be intense, but then it would be over with, not this ongoing torture.

  Emma sat on the bed, not caring that she was getting the comforter wet, opened up the damp wad of paper in her hand and smoothed it out on her bare thigh. The drawing had bled until it looked as if the chaise were floating among bluish clouds.

  “Emma? They’re boarding my flight.”

  Emma looked at the clock on the nightstand. It was 5:07.

  “You’d better hurry then,” she said. “It takes off at 5:20, right?” She started to shiver.

  “Emma—”

  “I’m cold. I got out of the bathtub when the phone rang, and I’m wet and I can’t stay here talking to you anymore, Gage. We said our goodbyes.”

  “No we didn’t. We never actually said ‘goodbye.’”

  She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Goodbye, Gage.”

  In the ensuing silence she heard a woman’s muted voice announcing final boarding for the flight to Little Rock. She barely heard his soft “Goodbye, Emma.”

  She replaced the receiver in its cradle, laid the wet sheet of paper on the night table and drained the tub. Searching through Zara’s closet, she came up with a white silk kimono and put that on. It felt slippery and smooth against her bare skin. She decided she could maybe get used to silk if she just gave it half a chance.

  Unlocking the sliding glass door, she stepped out onto the terrace, only to discover the remains of the breakfast Gage had prepared for her still sitting on the bistro table She cleaned it all up and then, on impulse, poured herself a glass of Chablis from a bottle in the fridge and took it to the terrace. Some supper might not be a bad idea, but she didn’t feel like eating anything. Her stomach felt as if it were being squeezed in a fist—a reaction both to Gage’s departure and to Mac’s implied threat.

  Pulling the sheer curtains across the open doorway to soften the light from the living room, she reclined on the lounge chair and sipped the wine slowly, accustoming herself to its sharp fruitiness and the subtle bloom of warmth that enveloped her.

  Night fell. One by one, lights went on in the windows of the buildings across the courtyard. Shapes moved around behind drawn shades—people going about their lives, playing out their various daily dramas.

  She thought about the pain of losing Gage and wondered how other people managed to tolerate this kind of anguish. And it was anguish, despite that she’d known Gage for mere days. How much worse must it be to end a long-term relationship? She didn’t think she ever wanted to find out.

  A harsh buzzing jolted her from her melancholy ruminations—the intercom. Slipping through the curtains into the living room, she pressed the button by the front door. “Yes?”

  The doorman’s staticky voice said, “It’s that guy from Plaza Security Systems. He wants to come up.”

  “Who?” Panic swept through Emma. Mac.

  “Mr. Hill,” said Gomez. “Can I go ahead and let him—”

  “No! Don’t let him up!”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. Absolutely.”

  After a brief pause, he said, “All right,” in an if-you-say-so tone.

  Her heart racing, Emma rechecked the locks and the stability of the chair lodged under the doorknob. It was Mac, she was sure. He was just calling himself Mr. Hill so that…

  Hill. Sam Hill. Gage! It was Gage! Gage was downstairs!

  Emma reached for the intercom button, but hesitated. A clean break. It’s hard, but it’s the only way. Don’t let him draw it out. Don’t let him up.

  Marching purposefully to the terrace, she lifted her wineglass to her mouth. By the time she’d drained it, she realized something. He missed his flight.

  He’d always said nothing would keep him off that flight—nothing. Yet he’d let the plane take off without him. And had come back here. To her. She couldn’t believe he’d go to that extreme just to say goodbye again.

  And she’d sent him away! Idiot! Idiot! She sprinted back to the front
door and jammed her thumb on the button. “I’m sorry, I’ve changed my mind. You can let him up.”

  “Let him up?”

  “Ga—Mr. Hill. You can let him up.”

  “He’s gone, Ms. Sutcliffe.”

  “Gone?”

  “Yeah, he turned around and left when you wouldn’t let him up. Gee, if I’d known you were gonna change your mind—”

  “Forget it,” she said. “I’ll be right down.”

  Emma shoved the chair aside, unlocked the door, grabbed the keys and bolted down the hall. She stabbed the button for the elevator, and when it didn’t come quickly enough, she slammed open the door to the stairwell, lifted the skirt of her robe and raced barefoot down seven flights.

  Her heart was slamming in her chest by the time she ran out onto the sidewalk. “Gage!” A middle-aged couple gaped at her; the man leered. She pulled the neck of her robe closed and peered up and down 86th Street. It was dark, and she couldn’t see much, but the few other pedestrians didn’t look anything like Gage.

  Dejected and kicking herself, she went back up to the apartment, reset the locks and replaced the chair. Are you happy now? You’ve really screwed things up. He’d never want to talk to her again, and why should he?

  She sat on the couch, willing herself not to cry for about fifteen minutes, then grabbed the TV remote and numbly flicked through channels for a while. “Who watches this shit?” Turning it off, she went and sat cross-legged in front of the entertainment unit where Zara had a hidden bookcase filled with hardcovers in shiny, untouched jackets, most of them by authors she represented. A quick perusal revealed the collection to be an eclectic mix of literary fiction, big bestsellers, celebrity bios, New Age self-help books and cookbooks.

  Emma pulled a literary novel emblazoned with a gold award sticker off the shelf and read the back-cover copy; it appeared to be a tale of divorce and suicide set in a small, Midwestern university town. A second novel of the same breed had to do with crippling illness and divorce. A third and very long one seemed to be an epic tale of madness, divorce and a whole string of tragic deaths.

  She jammed them back in their spots. Emma liked books with happy endings. She wanted the bad guys caught, the space monsters vanquished, the hero and heroine to live happily ever after—not because this reflected reality, but because it didn’t.

  If she wanted real life, she had her own: the bad guy was still running around loose and the heroine had just blown her last chance with the hero. If there were any space monsters in the vicinity, they’d probably be crawling up the side of the building right about now.

  A faint scraping sound made her turn toward the terrace.

  She stilled, listening intently. A period of silence was followed by an almost imperceptible thunk. The sounds emanated from beyond the fluttering chiffon curtains pulled across the doorway to the terrace.

  Her gaze was drawn to the poster for The Slithering, which featured the monster du jour wrapping its lascivious tentacles around a dripping-wet Candy Carmelle. The full-color art displayed the creature’s each and every grasping sucker in minute detail. Something like that could scale a building like this, easy, Emma thought giddily.

  A soft grunt—a very human grunt of effort—sent her scrambling to her feet and sprinting for the front door. Someone was out there. It’s Mac. She unlocked the door with fumbling haste. He’s out there and he’s gonna to kill me and there’s no time to call the cops, I have to get out of here—

  Footsteps landed heavily on the terrace; a planter crashed and broke. Turning, she saw a dark shadow through the sheer curtains, a hand yanking them aside....

  She pushed the chair away from the door, but it was too late; she heard him behind her, closing in on her....

  She grabbed the chair, turned and swung it as hard as she could. It splintered. A man bellowed and dropped to the carpet. “What the fuck!”

  Gage? Emma gaped at him, the broken chair clutched in her quivering fists. “I thought... I thought...”

  He sat up, rubbing the back of his neck. “That’s a hell of a way to say howdy.”

  She threw the chair aside and knelt in front of him. “Gage, I’m so sorry, I thought—”

  He wrapped his arms around her and threw her down, pressing her into the carpet. “Good for you. I could have been anybody. I could have been Mac.” He caressed the silk robe from shoulder to breast “This is real pretty. I like you in this.”

  “I thought you were Mac.”

  His eyes darkened to cobalt. “Has he threatened you?”

  “More or less. He knows I know who he is.”

  Gage groaned and lowered his forehead to hers. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Because I didn’t want you to worry.”

  “Were you afraid I’d do something crazy, like walk away from my flight and come back here and climb up seven balconies to see you?”

  “You what?”

  “I climbed up the balconies. Impressed?”

  “Yes!” Emma recalled her abject terror that morning when she’d shimmied from one balcony to the other. “You could have gotten killed. And look—your arm is bleeding again. I told you you needed stitches.” She shook her head. “I can’t believe you climbed all that way with that arm. Why did you do it?”

  “’Cause there’s something I forgot to tell you. Don’t know how it could have slipped my mind.”

  “What?”

  “I love you.”

  She just stared at him.

  “You’re right,” he said, “I’m an arrogant ass. First I was too mule-headed to listen to you, and then I went and passed judgment on you like I was Lord God of the Universe. You’re smart and sweet and sexy as all get-out, and I don’t deserve you, but you’re stuck with me, ’cause I went and fell in love with you. Hard.”

  “Really? Gage, I—”

  “Wait a minute, I’m not finished. I thought this all up in the cab on the way here, and I want to make sure I don’t forget any of it. What I really want is to take you back to Arkansas with me. I know right now’s not a good time, what with all of Mac’s shenanigans, and I’m gonna stick by you and make sure no harm comes to you or your Mom, but as soon as I can get you on a plane headed south, that’s exactly what I mean to do.”

  “You want to—”

  “Shh!” He pressed a finger to her mouth. “You don’t like New York. I don’t like New York. You need me. I need you. And I think you’ll like my place. It’s out in the middle of a big old pine forest, and you can smell those trees with every breath. I’ll fix you up your own little study, where you can write cozy mysteries. Or better yet, you can share mine. You can keep reminding me what a noble thing it is that I’m writing pulp fiction—you’re good at that.”

  “Are you asking me to live with you?”

  He blinked. “No.”

  Heat flooded her face. “Oh.”

  “I’m askin’ you to marry me.”

  Catatonic shock gripped her.

  “We can have as long an engagement as you like, but I need you to know I mean to marry you. In the meantime, yeah, of course I want to live with you, but I expect you to start plannin’ a wedding when you feel the time is right.”

  “You’re serious,” she whispered.

  “I told you,” he said quietly, “I’m in love with you. I’m not letting you go. And if you’re thinking we’ve only known each other for a couple of days, I’ll have you know my parents got engaged the day after they met, and they’re still incredibly happy forty years later. Being with someone for years before you get engaged isn’t any guarantee that you really know them.”

  Emma knew he was thinking about Natalie.

  “Now, you, I know,” he said. “It doesn’t feel like we just met. I feel like I’ve known you since the beginning of time. I know you with every cell of my body. I know you inside and out, up and down and sideways, and I mean to spend the rest of my life getting to know you even better than that. Now, I reckon you’re probably still mad at me, but you’ll ju
st have to get over it, because—”

  She wrapped her arms around him and pulled him down and kissed him, aching with joy, and he kissed her back—like he meant it.

  “I have gotten over it,” she whispered against his lips.

  He smiled. “You have?”

  “Want me to prove it?”

  “You don’t have to....”

  But she’d already gotten his shirt unbuttoned almost all the way down.

  He grinned. “Okay. Prove it.”

  ~ THE END ~

  DOUBLE DARE BOOK TWO

  For the exciting conclusion to the suspense storyline in Good to Be Bad—as well as a passionate new romance starring Emma’s twin sister Zara—check out Pamela Burford’s Twice Burned, an RT Reviewers Choice Best Book Awards finalist.

  Zara Sutcliffe has always been more confident and adventurous than her shy twin sister, Emma. But nothing in Zara’s past has prepared her for FBI Agent Logan Pierce… if he really is an agent, that is. She can only take his word for that after he kidnaps her and keeps her a virtual prisoner in a New York City warehouse. He calls it a safe house, but she feels anything but safe when he turns those intense amber eyes on her. The only thing she’s certain of is that her enigmatic bodyguard is too sexy for her own good. What does he know that she doesn’t?

  Plenty, as it turns out. Such as his own close connection to a criminal with no conscience who’s a threat not just to Zara, but to her sister and mother as well. And all because of a bizarre, decades-old movie prop that someone wants badly enough to kill for.

  Chapter One

  Wolf’s eyes, Zara thought, watching the man weave through the crowded terminal at Kennedy Airport, that feral golden brown gaze riveted to her.