Asking for Trouble

by Leslie Kelly

  It killed him to wait. But if he moved too fast and the woman was able to get a shot off…Lottie could be the one killed. He stayed put.

  “No one will believe that.”

  The woman shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not. Besides, I don’t need to own this place to do what needs to be done.”

  Lottie looked confused. “But I thought you were trying to reclaim it. For your…family.”

  He had no idea what she was getting at. But the woman apparently did. “How the hell do you know that?”

  “What, that you and your sister and brother in Charleston are descendents of Josef Zangara? That you’re trying to get this house back out of some kind of weird, twisted self-righteousness?”

  Holy shit, now he was really confused. Lottie had obviously been very busy while he’d been gone. How she’d put all of this together in such a short time was something he really wanted to find out. When this was over.

  Soon. Please soon.

  “Just because that bastard who killed my sister inherited this house when he isn’t entitled to it doesn’t mean that’s what I’m after.”

  “So what are you after?” Lottie asked, her voice low, as if she was trying to calm a vicious animal.

  Which she was.

  “Money.” The woman sounded so matter-of-fact. “My dear old great-grandfather hid a fortune in the walls of that house. A million dollars in cash, at least. And it belongs to me.”

  Lottie said nothing. She just waited. Simon, though, shook his head slowly, beginning to understand what had happened. What utter folly the whole ugly scheme had been.

  “My brother, sister and I were the only ones who believed it and we cut ourselves off from our whole family because we were determined to find the money. Now it’s up to me, and I’m not giving up. So off you go, over the cliff with or without a bullet in your head. It’s your choice. Either way, the police will think your boyfriend did it in a jealous rage.”

  Time was up. Simon knew it by the way the woman shifted on her feet and the muscles of her back tightened. She was going to shoot.

  He didn’t hesitate. Catching Lottie’s eye, he pointed to the rock, then held his hand in the air, three fingers up. He counted down…one step closer. Two. And on three, Lottie did as he’d silently ordered, diving behind the boulder, as Simon charged the woman with the gun.

  He didn’t think, didn’t allow himself to remember what had happened in Charleston, when he’d lunged at a woman and she’d fallen to her death. He didn’t question for more than a second that living with the guilt would be worth it to save the woman he loved.

  He simply hit the woman around the waist, tackling her to the lawn as she tried to lunge at Lottie. The two of them rolled across the ground, perilously close to the edge of the cliff, the gun flying out of her hand.

  She fought. Scratched and kicked, and tried to roll away from him. When Simon saw her body hit the top of the ledge and begin to slide over it, he went from trying to subdue her to trying to catch her.

  “Simon!” Lottie called from behind him, obviously realizing, just as he had, that the woman was about to fall.

  No. That wasn’t going to happen. Now that Lottie was safe, he wasn’t going to let this woman die, either, no matter what she’d done. So reaching out, he grabbed her wrist, holding tight as the loose soil, soft after the rain, gave way beneath her and she slid.

  Her mouth fell open and terror twisted her features as she realized what was happening. Now, rather than trying to rip herself away from him, she was grabbing Simon’s shirt, tearing it as she tried to get a grip.

  “I’m not going to let you go,” he said, realizing she thought he would let her fall to her death.

  Maybe because that’s what she would have done.

  But he wasn’t like her. In spite of what had happened that awful night in Charleston, Simon was no killer.

  “I’ve got you,” he added, pulling her, dragging her to solid ground, where she lay panting. Lottie was right there to help him, and when he looked up at her and saw the gun in her hand—which was pointed at Louisa Mitchell—he broke into a wide smile. “I like a woman who thinks on her feet.”

  She smiled back, but couldn’t hide the tears in her eyes. And as he slowly rose to his feet, those tears erupted down her cheeks. Handing him the gun, she melted into his arms and sobbed against his neck until she just couldn’t cry anymore.

  THE TROUBLE police department might be small, but the chief seemed like a competent guy. He and two of his officers had arrived within twenty minutes of Lottie’s call, and they’d spent those twenty minutes watching their ghost closely. Simon never took the gun off her.

  There had been a lot of questions, but once the woman was in custody, Lottie had led Simon and the chief up to the attic, and had showed them the secret room. It was, as she’d suspected, where the woman had been hiding out.

  The room was equipped with a bed, so she’d even slept here, tucked away in a secret corner, spinning her ugly webs. A laptop computer contained files full of pictures of the crime scene—the ones she’d tormented Simon with. There was a spare skeleton key to all the rooms in the house, which Simon assumed she’d stolen on one of her previous visits, as well as a paint-splattered white blouse, the perfume—everything.

  As the police had placed her under arrest, the woman had begun to talk. She’d spat out plenty of choice words toward him, for the death of her sister. But she’d also had a lot to say, confessing to everything despite being told she could wait for an attorney.

  Including the murder of Roger Denton.

  Somehow, when the police were taking her away, Simon was unable to remain silent about one thing. Following them to the car, he asked the chief for a moment, then faced the woman who looked so much like her dead sister.

  “The money,” he said, his jaw tight and his head aching from the ugliness of the day. “You said you were after money.”

  The woman nodded, her eyes still flashing with hatred. “My murderous old great-granddad liked to keep a diary about the sick games he played in this place, and he mentioned having a stash of cash hidden in the house. He was never able to get to it once he was arrested and I guess he didn’t trust his loving wifey to get it for him. But if you think I’m going to tell you where he said it was, you can go to hell.”

  “I’ve been there,” he said evenly. “And you don’t have to tell me a thing. I know exactly where the money was hidden.”

  Beside him, he heard Lottie gasp in surprise. Even the chief looked interested. As for Louisa, she went utterly pale. “You’re lying.”

  He shook his head. “My mother hated this place, you know. She always thought her grandfather had been a crook. So when she was a teenager and there was a fire that destroyed a dozen rooms on the third floor, she wasn’t exactly surprised by what they found.”

  “The third floor…”

  “Every room on the west side of the house.”

  The woman began to shake.

  “She and her brother found thousands of tiny bits of burned paper—blackened—like confetti.”

  “No…”

  “Yes,” he said, taking satisfaction at showing the woman what an utter fool she’d been. That she’d wasted her life—and had cost other people theirs—for absolutely nothing. Feeling it was almost poetic justice—though, of course, small consolation—he shook his head.

  “It was money. And every bit of it was destroyed.”

  BY THAT NIGHT, Simon began to feel that both he and Lottie were getting back to normal, to recover from the ordeal of not only the day, but all the days—weeks, months—preceding it. They had talked for hours, and when she’d told him how she’d put everything together, he’d been very impressed.

  He hadn’t liked hearing about how a psycho had risen out of the floorboards of the attic and chased the woman he loved down the stairs and out of the house. But she was safe. She was in his arms, in his bed.

  Preparing to go away.

  “So, your family’s expecting
you back tomorrow night?” he asked, trying to sound nonchalant when a voice inside his brain was screaming at him to demand that she stay with him instead.

  Her head was resting on his shoulder, her faced tucked against his neck, but she nodded. “Yes. I have to leave in the morning.”

  “As long as your car starts,” he said, only half joking.

  She didn’t even try to force a laugh. “I got an e-mail from my professor asking for my notes a couple of hours ago. I sent them…and told him I’d finalize everything and see him in person on Wednesday.”

  Nothing in her voice indicated that the idea bothered her. She sounded ready to go, to move on with her life.

  Well, why wouldn’t she be? Since being in his house, she’d been stalked, attacked and nearly killed. Who wouldn’t want to get away from here—away from him, the man who’d caused it all?

  “Will you be all right, Simon?” she asked. “I mean, if you need more help…”

  She didn’t continue, letting the words hang there unsaid. He knew if he asked her to extend her trip, she’d do it. If he told her he needed her, nothing would make her leave. After all, her loyalty and kindness were two of the things he loved most about her.

  But he couldn’t ask. Having her stay here because she thought she needed to take care of him was almost as bad as letting her go. Almost.

  He thought about just telling her the truth—that he wanted her to stay because he loved her. Or that he’d go with her anywhere she wanted to be…again, because he loved her.

  He didn’t do it. Laying the “L” word on her would make her feel obligated to use it back. That or make her pity him more.

  So he kept silent. He asked for nothing, he told her nothing, he promised her nothing.

  He simply made love to her all through the night, asking her, telling her and promising her everything. Without saying a single word at all.

  And by noon on Halloween, she was gone.

  17

  Lottie

  Four weeks later

  I LOVE THE HOLIDAY SEASON. Right after Halloween rolls around, I start jonesing for turkey and pumpkin pie. I pull out my favorite winter clothes and love walking outside, feeling ice-cold air kiss my cheeks and seeing my breath dissipate in a mist just past my lips.

  Thanksgiving with the Santori family is a huge affair. On every other Sunday, and every other holiday, the immediate family gathers at my parents’ house, the same one where I’d grown up. But on Thanksgiving, Mama and Pop invite all the relatives, not just the close ones. So they have the celebration at the restaurant, which is closed to the public that day.

  Getting the meal ready falls, as usual, to the females, but at least Pop and Tony, who runs the restaurant now that our father is somewhat retired, are responsible for the turkey.

  It smelled good, the odor permeating through the restaurant like a cloud of positive feelings and joy.

  Only, I wasn’t feeling any of it. Sure, I was smelling it. But positive feelings and joy weren’t part of my repertoire. They hadn’t been since Halloween.

  Driving off that mountain, watching Simon get smaller and smaller in my rearview mirror, had been the most difficult thing I’d ever done. More difficult by far than outrunning a psycho bitch with a gun.

  Uh, the family still doesn’t know that part of the story. And I don’t plan on telling them.

  They know I’m miserable, of course. That I’ve lost weight, that there are tire-size bags under my eyes with treads deeper than a Michelin. That I don’t laugh and seldom smile.

  Every woman in the family knows I’m in love, and so does my brother Mark. He’s also the only one who knows who I’m in love with, and I’m inclined to keep it that way.

  I just couldn’t believe Simon hadn’t gotten in touch with me. “You jerk,” I whispered under my breath as I sat in a booth in the back corner of the room, watching as the door opened again to let in another bunch of loud, laughing Santoris bearing food.

  I knew we’d said goodbye. But when I made the choice to leave, rather than forcing Simon to admit what he felt about me—I felt sure it was only for a short time.

  Simon had been through hell. If there was ever a man who needed to get his shit together and his head on straight, it was him. Having discovered that his uncle had been murdered—and that he himself had been targeted by the same group of killers—wouldn’t be easy to get over.

  I’d needed to let him get over it. On his own terms. In his own time. “But I didn’t count on it taking so long,” I muttered as I reached for the big glass of wine I’d snagged from my father’s secret stash in the kitchen of the restaurant.

  “Taking so long for what, honey?” someone said in a soft southern drawl.

  Looking across the table, I saw my sister-in-law Rachel, who’d plopped down across from me. Her bright, blond hair was out of place in this sea of dark-haired Italians, but with her smile and her enormous heart, she fit right in. “I was talking to myself.”

  “No kidding,” someone else said. “You been doin’ nothin’ else but mopin’ since you got home last month. When you going to get off your keister and do something about this guy who has you tied up in knots?”

  No mistaking that voice, either. Gloria, Tony’s wife, had been a member of my family since I was a teenager. She was an inner-city girl, raised just as we had been by another big Italian crew a few blocks away from us. She was brash and bossy, confident and sexy. And she kept Tony on a tight leash, though she let him pretend he was in charge of their household.

  My other brothers used to call Tony whipped. Until they got married. Now I’d say they’re all pretty much whipped. Ha.

  I couldn’t even imagine the kind of woman it would take to calm wild-man Nick down though. Neither could anyone else, which was another reason everyone was anxious for him to finish his tour of duty and get home, safe and sound.

  “So what are you going to do?” Gloria prodded, not taking my silence as a hint that I didn’t want to talk.

  Nobody in my family takes hints very well.

  “There’s nothing I can do. The ball’s in his court.”

  “Sounds to me like you need to pick the damn thing up and run it back into your end zone, then,” Gloria said, snapping her gum. Her eyes scanned the crowd, watching, as always, for her two sons, both under the age of five. We affectionately called them “the heathens.”

  “Leave her be,” Rachel said, reaching over and taking my cold hand. “Sugar, you look like your heart’s near to breaking. Now I know you haven’t wanted to talk but you know we’re all here for you.”

  Behind her, two more female heads suddenly popped up from the bench behind this one. Meg and Noelle had obviously been sitting there, waiting for their chance to jump into this conversation. They wore similar, mischievous smiles.

  “Jeez, is Mama going to come crawling out from under the table next?” I muttered.

  “She knows you won’t open up about everything that happened if she’s here,” Meg admitted, a pink flush rising in her soft cheeks. That gentle, darling face was quite a contrast with the woman’s knockout figure. “I mean, we can all tell you’ve…changed. But I don’t think she wants to know the details.”

  Mama would have a heart attack if she knew the details.

  Before I could answer, I heard Noelle, my newest sister-in-law, let out a low wolf whistle. “Whoa, Nellie, who’s the hunk who just walked in the door behind Aunt Carmela?”

  I couldn’t even muster enough interest to look up.

  Then Gloria let out a loud sigh. “Somebody tell me if you hear my knees knockin’ together. Talk about tall, dark and dangerous.”

  I immediately went still. A sudden flow of electric tension washed over me, and I knew I was being watched. I also knew by who.

  I slowly looked up, toward the door, and saw him standing there. Aunt Carmela, who probably stood only as high as Simon’s throat, was chattering up at him and one of my cousins had walked over to greet him. But he paid no attention.

>   Every bit of his attention was focused on me.

  Feeling the cold, hard knot that had been in my stomach for a month begin to unfurl, I put my hands flat on the table. Knowing I was going to be all right, I murmured, “Ladies, if you’ll excuse me, I think I have a ball to go pick up.”

  It took maybe five seconds for my meaning to sink in. Then one of them gasped. Or they all did. I barely noticed.

  Slipping out of the seat, I walked slowly across the room. He came forward to meet me, his dark, blazing eyes never shifting left or right. They were locked on me, burning with emotion.

  From a few feet away, I noted the changes. His face had more color, the hollows beneath his eyes were gone. And though he wore a heavy overcoat, I could see his muscular body had filled out a little bit, erasing any sign of illness.

  He looked, in fact, delicious.

  “Hi,” I murmured when I got to within a foot of him. “Happy Thanksgiving.”

  He stepped in close, sliding a hand around my waist and tugging me against his body. “And Merry Christmas,” he growled before lowering his mouth and catching mine in a hungry, desperate kiss.

  Elsewhere in the room, I’m sure, we had a wide-eyed audience. But frankly I just didn’t care. His arms held me tight, and I slid mine around his neck. Our deep, intimate kiss continued silently, but with our bodies, we cemented one certainty—neither of us was letting go. Ever.

  Finally, apparently realizing everyone around us had stopped talking and was watching in shock, Simon ended the kiss and looked into my eyes. “I love you.”

  “I love you, too.”

  “Yeah. I know. I’m ready to let you now.”

  He didn’t have to explain. I understood.

  “I’m fine, Lottie. I’m whole.”

  I nodded. I could see that. The shadows were gone, the pain and guilt had finally disappeared from his beautiful, scarred face. This was the Simon I’d seen more and more of at Seaton House. The other one—the dark, angry one—had disappeared.

  “I’m really fine,” he added. He lifted a hand and brushed my hair back, frowning as he ran the pad of his thumb under my eye, as if rubbing away the tired circles there. “Are you?”