She gulped a drink of oxygen, repeating to herself that she was being irrational.
But Nicky was the light of her life.
Shannen rushed into the kitchen. The echo of her footsteps sliced through the eerie stillness in the vacant room. Something was wrong. She felt it.
“They must have gone for a walk,” she said aloud, as if the sound of her voice would calm her. After all, her house sat on two acres of land, most of it heavily forested. It wasn’t inconceivable that Nicky and Maria would be out of sight.
An acrid smell met her nose and she looked toward the stove. Smoke was rising and the odor was getting worse. Tentacles of fear strangled what little optimism she’d clung to.
She grabbed for a pot holder, switched off the gas and pulled the burning aluminum pan from the stove. Obviously it had only been filled with water, in preparation for the peeled and sliced potatoes on the cutting board. Shannen knew Maria wasn’t irresponsible enough to leave the stove unattended.
The smoke detector let out a belated, alarming shrill.
“Maria!” Shannen’s voice had risen to a hysterical octave.
The noise of something crashing to the floor vibrated through the kitchen. Startled, Shannen jumped.
Following the sound, she gave no thought to danger as she ran to the pantry, yanking open the door. Maria, eyes frightfully wide, mouth gagged, hands and feet bound with blood-restricting knots of rope, lay on the floor. Several cans of food lay scattered around her. Somehow she had managed to kick them off the shelves.
“Oh my God!” Rushing to the woman, Shannen tried her best to untie the gag. She fumbled for several long seconds before giving up and hurrying to the kitchen for a pair of shears.
By the time she’d freed the housekeeper from the strip of cloth, a thin line of blood trickled from the corner of Maria’s mouth. Ripping open a package of paper towels, Shannen took one, dabbing it on the small cut. “Where’s Nicky?” she demanded, adrenaline threatening to steal what remained of rational thought.
Maria babbled in her native language.
“Maria!” Shannen’s tone was sharp. “You’ve got to calm down and tell me what happened.”
Tears gushed from the woman’s eyes.
Shannen repeated herself in Spanish. Maria continued to cry and shake her head. Shannen drew in a breath, dragging air deep into her lungs. Taking the woman by the shoulders, she carefully enunciated, “Where is Nicky?”
“Gone. They...they...”
“Sí?” Shannen prompted, desperate.
“They took him. He’s gone, señora. I tried to stop them....”
Shannen’s entire body began to tremble uncontrollably. “Where? Who? When?”
Tears poured from Maria’s eyes.
The smoke detector continued to shriek, adding fuel to Shannen’s panic.
She forced herself to sever the ropes slicing into Maria’s skin. Bleeding welts showed the brutality of her son’s kidnappers. No matter what, Shannen knew it couldn’t be Rhone. He couldn’t have changed this much.
Shannen closed her eyes against chaotic, overwhelming emotion. She had to think. Think. Even if it was the last thing she wanted to do.
“We’ve got to save the niño,” Maria muttered miserably.
Shannen clenched her fists, not caring that her nails cut into her palms. Scared and angry, she forced herself to her feet. With eyes glazed by hot, unshed tears, she groped for the phone and punched the three emergency digits she’d prayed she’d never have to use.
Then she sank onto the floor, knees curled to her chest and began to cry, her body convulsing with huge, aching sobs.
* * *
Rhone’s fingers tightened around the steering wheel of the rented four-wheel drive vehicle. He’d made good time in the air, but the trek up this damned mountain was slowing him down considerably. The narrow winding road had more curves than a well-built woman, he fumed. Each was concealed by a veil of jutting rock formations that were barely visible in the opaque darkness, demanding more of his attention than he wanted to give.
Instead of hours, it felt like days since Jimmy’s phone call. Immediately following it, Doug had made arrangements for a Learjet to fly Rhone to Colorado. Having the carry-on bag Rhone had taken to the coast with him, he hadn’t wasted time going home to repack. Doug promised to catch a flight first thing in the morning.
Rhone had gladly accepted Doug’s assistance. With Shannen’s safety at stake, Rhone would take all the help he could get.
But what if he was already too late? What if Norton had gotten to Shannen first? What ifs Rhone couldn’t bear to think about and yet, couldn’t purge from his mind.
With bitter frustration, he leaned his head against the back of the seat. The crisp breeze that floated through the opened window surrounded him—a welcome change from Dallas. For a moment, his glance strayed toward the sky. At this altitude, the stars were unbelievable, looking close enough for him to reach up and grab.
Shannen was a stargazer, he remembered. And a dreamer. She found joy in things most people took for granted. He smiled. Once, together, she cast a wish on a shooting star. More the realist, he’d played along at her insistence, to humor her. To his way of thinking, though, no star could have compared to the one he’d held in his arms that night. They still didn’t, he decided.
An obscure dirt side road brought Rhone back to the present. Reversing, he illuminated the street sign with his headlights. Pinewood Drive. He felt a stirring of anticipation as he turned. And on the heels of anticipation, icy fingers of dread teased his composure.
Without the lights of other traffic, the darkness became all consuming. The stars and the crescent moon did nothing to light his way. What appeared to be dense forest lined the road.
Desolate.
Secluded.
Whatever had possessed Shannen to live in such seclusion? He didn’t like it. Not one bit.
Apprehension gained momentum the longer he drove, the closer he got to his destination.
About a mile and a half later, lights from a house beckoned through the trees. Slowing down, Rhone looked for an identifying house number on a mailbox, post, anything. There was none. He turned anyway, sensing the house that was situated in the clearing was Shannen’s. His approach startled several deer. With graceful leaps, they disappeared among the trees.
In the beam of his headlights, he saw the prefabricated log two-story. Following the drive to the north side of the house, Rhone frowned, parking behind a white sedan. He noticed the chrome spotlights, the government license plate. Looking beyond the cruiser, he saw a four-wheel drive with the local police emblem and another vehicle belonging to state patrol.
He cursed savagely as panic shot through him. He’d arrived all right, but too damned late.
Chapter 3
“There ain’t no one comin’ after us, is there?”
Jimmy Norton glanced from the rearview mirror to the buxom redhead next to him. “If there was, don’t ya think I could handle it?”
“Yes, Jimmy.”
“I’ll tell you what I can’t handle—that Mitchell brat’s wailin’. If you don’t shut him up, you’re gonna wish someone was comin’ after us. Got it?”
“Yes, Jimmy.”
“Yes, Jimmy,” he mimicked. He shook his head with disgust. Blocking out the racket, Jimmy reran the events of the past twenty-four hours through his mind, relishing each.
Hearing fear in Rhone Mitchell’s voice had been the highlight of the day. Jimmy snickered aloud, mentally patting himself on the back.
But his pleasure was short-lived. In the confining cab of the truck, the baby’s wailing reached a screaming pitch.
* * *
At a sprint, Rhone’s feet touched one of the five steps leading to Shannen’s front door. Graphic pictures of restitution flashed through his mind. To hell with common courtesy, he thought. Ignoring the brass knocker, he reached for the knob.
A faint rustling of dried brush, then a muffled snap of a twig
diverted his attention.
Reflexes took over. Withdrawing a knife from the narrow leather scabbard in his boot, Rhone stood perfectly still, every nerve taut, ready to spring. Keen awareness honed to delicate precision from years of training focused outward—waiting.
The deer he’d seen earlier could have returned, but his instincts told him no. Experience in the jungle had taught him well the cadence of wildlife. Human footsteps sounded completely different.
At exactly the right moment, Rhone ducked and turned. With minimum exertion, he knocked his opponent’s weapon to the redwood porch. A grunt, then a moan followed as Rhone bent the man’s arm at an awkward angle, holding the blade of steel against exposed flesh. It would take a second, Rhone thought. Only a second.
At that moment the door swung open.
Immediately, Rhone came to two conclusions. One, he didn’t much favor looking down the barrel of a .357. Two, as light fell, Rhone identified who he held in his death grip. Muttering a string of oaths, he released the man.
Chagrined, Brian Yarrow rubbed his neck, as though needing to reassure himself it was still intact. “Trust me when I say,” he told the patrolman, “Rhone Mitchell isn’t someone you want to point a gun at.”
“Rhone Mitchell?” the patrolman asked, holstering his weapon. “I’ve heard of you. DEA?”
“At one time. Among other things.”
With a cursory glance at Brian, a special agent he’d trained, and no apology, Rhone sheathed the knife. “Where’s Shannen? Where’s my wife?”
Rhone strode past the patrolman, not waiting for an answer. Brian hustled to catch up. “Your wife? Then that would make the kid... Mitchell! Wait a minute. There’s something you should know.”
With single-minded purpose, he ignored Brian. Crossing the foyer, Rhone heard a female voice.
Shannen’s?
Without calling attention to himself, he paused at the entrance to the living room.
A dark-haired woman, presumably Shannen’s roommate, sat next to her. Facing away from Rhone, Shannen responded to the officer’s questions in a tone that said she’d already answered them more than once. Irritation rippled through him. Rhone cocked his head, trying to decipher the words and failed. Her voice was thick with unshed tears, husky with many already shed.
“If you leave me now, I won’t be here when you come back.”
The last exchange between them replayed in his mind with relentless accuracy. Her voice had sounded exactly the same. Rhone didn’t have to see her face to know there would be a haunted expression in her eyes. The question was, Why?
Across the room, the officer looked up and spotted Rhone. Shannen stopped midsentence, following the officer’s gaze. Rhone was reluctant to meet her eyes, afraid of what he would see and yet, he was unable to look away.
A whisper of warmth altered her stunned expression. All too quickly, the warmth was replaced by confusion, then, accusing anger.
Tears streaming over her cheeks, Shannen jumped from the couch. Golden hair hung to her shoulders in disarray, dark circles under her eyes punctuating pale skin devoid of makeup. She looked as though she’d been through hell, but to him, she was beautiful. She would never be anything less. He stepped forward and placed his hands on her shoulders, speaking her name.
She shook off his touch, as though finding it repulsive. “Damn you, Rhone Mitchell. Isn’t there any place I can be safe?”
In the face of her anger, Rhone almost laughed out loud, his relief was so great. Norton hadn’t yet made good his threat—though, obviously he’d made contact with Shannen, voicing his intentions and terrifying her. For that and crimes only Rhone and Doug knew about, Norton would pay. When he made his move, they would be ready.
Brian stepped up behind Rhone. “We’ve put an APB out on Norton. Shannen...that is, Mrs. Mitchell—”
“Ms. Richardson,” Shannen said through clenched teeth.
Watching her, Rhone’s eyes narrowed. So, that’s how it is, he challenged her silently. We pick up where we left off.
As if in a daze, Rhone comprehended the rest of Brian’s words.
“What’s this about an APB?” Rhone fired the question. Breaking eye contact with Shannen, he turned on Brian, voice dropping to sea level. “What the hell is going on?”
Brian’s glance flickered between Shannen and Rhone before settling on his superior. “Ms...er, Richardson and her housekeeper gave us enough details for a composite sketch. They also identified Jimmy Norton’s photo.”
“Any particular reason why?”
Tension ricocheted through the room.
Rhone didn’t recall Brian demonstrating as much hesitancy at the academy. Quite the contrary. Cocky and obnoxious were words that came readily to mind. As Brian’s instructor, Rhone took credit for reforming the kid’s overinflated ego. A trait that would have gotten him killed sooner or later. Sooner was a definite possibility if he didn’t speak up, Rhone thought, with ill-humored impatience.
Apparently taking pity on Brian, Shannen squared her shoulders, confronting Rhone.
“There’s been a kidnapping. Your ex-con was here earlier, posing as a real-estate agent.” Shannen paused. Twisting her hands, she took a deep breath, then continued, “He came back later while I was in town. Maria, my housekeeper, didn’t see him when he was here the first time. The description she gave the officer this evening matched mine.”
“You’re absolutely certain it was Norton?”
The look she gave him shot holes in any hope Rhone had she was mistaken. He didn’t like the idea Norton had been so close to Shannen that he could have reached out and touched her—or worse. Where she was concerned, explicit knowledge of what Jimmy Norton was capable of made Rhone break out in a cold sweat.
He redirected his line of questioning. “Maria lives with you?”
“Yes.”
Rhone frowned, recalling the information he’d been given after he’d ordered the trace of Shannen’s whereabouts. The same information he’d passed on to Doug earlier—that Shannen supposedly shared the house with another woman who had a kid.
“Then the child is hers?” Rhone asked. It didn’t make sense. Why would Norton take the kid when taking Shannen would have been a direct hit?
Looking over his shoulder toward Maria, Rhone thought she looked more the grandmotherly type, but who was he to say? Maybe the kid was her grandson.
His eyes narrowed as he studied the disheveled woman huddled in a corner of the couch. For the first time he noticed that the outer edge of her mouth and lip were swollen and discolored. She stared blankly across the room, her fingers knotted tightly in her lap. It wasn’t her tense knuckles that arrested his attention. Bruises, dark blue with streaks of red, encircled both wrists. The chasm of hatred Rhone felt widened dangerously, evoked by the man who had dared to inflict such blatant abuse.
When Shannen didn’t offer confirmation, Rhone looked back at her, speaking more sharply than he’d intended. “I’ll need a picture of the child.”
“How do you know it was a child that was taken?”
“Come on, Shannen.” A ring of impatience surrounded his words. “With my resources, there’s very little I don’t know.”
Shannen’s chin tilted, though her voice quivered. “Then why ask me, when you already know it all?”
Rhone ground his teeth, impatience giving way to full-fledged irritation. “Because I’m lacking details that were apparently considered too minor to pass on.” Silently, Rhone cursed the responsible investigator.
“Minor...details?” Each syllable was clearly enunciated in a monotone that held a jagged edge of tightly controlled anger.
He flinched. “I’m sure you’re close to the child and understandably, you’re upset.” Rhone changed his tone to gentle coaxing. “I can’t help if I don’t know who I’m looking for.”
“Who asked you to help?”
“When a known...felon threatens to harm a member of my family, that’s all the invitation I need. If you have a pro
blem with that—tough. The fact Norton screwed up and took the child instead of you doesn’t make me any less involved. I will do everything I can to get the child back unharmed and put Norton behind bars where he belongs.”
Shannen stared into space somewhere over his left shoulder. Grief and despair battled for prime time, wreaking havoc with her calm facade.
“You’re looking for a fifteen-month-old boy,” she finally gave. “His name is Nicholas. Sometimes we call him Nicky.”
Her shrug belied the fury that sparked from the depths of green-blue eyes that turned on him.
“There’s a few additional minor details you should know. Nicholas is extremely susceptible to upper-respiratory infections—” Shannen’s voice broke. She swallowed rapidly before continuing, flinging the words at him as though holding him accountable for their meaning.
“Nicky often requires medication. If he doesn’t get it, his condition can become life threatening within hours.”
Rhone sighed. He knew it wouldn’t matter that Nicholas belonged to someone else; the hurting would be the same. Shannen loved kids. She always had. In fact, she couldn’t stand watching movies when, on-screen, a kid’s life, or that of an animal, was in jeopardy.
Shannen had wanted a baby, his baby, she’d said. But the timing had been all wrong. Unfortunately, Rhone hadn’t been able to explain the reasons to Shannen. And when he could have, it was too late. She was gone. In the span of a heartbeat, he knew he would give anything to turn back time, to right the wrongs. To love her the way she deserved.
At the moment, she looked lost, alone and afraid. How like her to hide her feelings behind a mask of anger. How like human nature. A common reaction, considering fear and anger were kissing cousins. Wanting to offer comfort, Rhone ran his hand up Shannen’s spine.
He sought her nape and the tense muscles he knew he would find there. Gently yet firmly, he massaged them between fingers and thumb.
A circuit of tremors shook her slender body, the circuit passing and connecting within himself.
She could deny all she wanted that nothing existed between them. Furthermore, it was of no consequence to him what name she’d chosen to use—it was as much a lie as were her efforts to convince him she was immune to him. Had the circumstances been different, he would have taken great delight in pointing out her transparency.
All I Need Page 3
