Dead Right

by Cate Noble

  “May I help you?” a nurse asked.

  “I work at the orphanage,” Cat said. “Sister Dores is concerned about the boy, Marco, she brought in earlier. He’s…new, and she doesn’t want him to feel abandoned. She would like me to sit with him if that’s okay.”

  The nurse nodded, pointed. “Bed seven on the left.”

  Marco was lying in the crib, whimpering as he sucked his thumb. Tears welled in Cat’s eyes as she approached.

  His eyes opened then and a smile of recognition lit his face. Her beautiful, beautiful boy. He started whimpering again.

  “Shhhh,” she whispered. She dropped down to his level and stuck her arms through the slats to keep him still. He latched on to her thumb and started to cry. “It’s all right, little one. I’m here.”

  Stroking his head, she started to sing softly. After a moment, he quieted then yawned. His eyes drifted shut and still Cat sang. In sleep, his grip on her thumb tightened, as if to never let go.

  Dante…

  They looked so much alike, sometimes it hurt.

  It hurt.

  It hurt.

  And that pain brought back all the memories she wanted to forget.

  Chapter 19

  Ambergris Caye, Belize

  June 30

  (Twenty-Four Months Ago)

  He’d left a message at the front desk. Something came up. She hadn’t read beyond the first line.

  It wasn’t the first time Dante had stood her up. It was the ninth. How apropos. Last inning. She was pissed off that she’d kept score.

  Sore loser? Damn straight.

  She thought about calling her friend Giselle. Except she’d find little sympathy there. Last time they talked, Giselle had given her the old “you can’t trust a gorgeous man, they all think with their dicks” lecture.

  Check. Dante was gorgeous. He had that straight black hair, which always needed a trim, and always fell over those deep brown eyes. Big deep brown eyes, she corrected. The kind of eyes that compelled a woman to obey. Worse, he was tall and well built. Well hung. And though she’d never tell Giselle, she liked it when he thought with his dick.

  And therein lay the problem.

  She’d arrived at the resort a day early, hoping time alone at her favorite place—the beach—would help her find courage.

  She tossed the bag of massage oils she’d just purchased into a trash receptacle as she made her way in the rain toward their—her!—private cabana. She’d planned to stage a seduction. Something special to make amends for her short temper of late.

  Except how did one seduce a no-show?

  Handwriting’s on the wall, girl.

  Yeah, the floor and ceiling, too.

  She paused outside the cabana’s entry, dreading what awaited her. Slipping inside, she peeked into the bathroom. The pregnancy test kit she’d bought yesterday sat unopened on the counter. Suddenly she saw it for what it was. A relationship test.

  Part of her had hoped Dante would make it to the room before she got back from shopping. He’d see the kit and figure it out. At that point he could have walked—or at least thought over what to say.

  She hadn’t expected joyous overtures. He’d made it clear from the beginning that he never wanted kids.

  “People in our line of work…it’s not fair to the kid. Every time I walk out that door, there’s a damned good chance I’m not coming back. And if I piss off the wrong people and they come after—”

  She knew the spiel. Had agreed with it one hundred percent.

  Until three weeks ago. She was never late. And her boobs were tender, her moods anything but. She’d perfected the art of denial. She couldn’t be pregnant. Period. They’d never ever had unprotected sex. Double period. Hell, Dante had even been phobic about using condoms she’d purchased.

  Then she’d done a little no-fucking-way research on the Internet. One site posted a two percent breakage rate for condoms. Two out of one hundred. She should have been pregnant twice after their last vacation. Further reading had been flat-out depressing. Incorrect usage—which included rushing, ripping packages with teeth/nails—bumped the failure rate to fifteen percent. And the tests conducted by Consumer Reports comparing brands…

  She felt guilty for all the times she’d given other women the yeah-right eye roll. Oh, sure, it was an accident. And so help her, if Dante accused her of entrapment, she’d—

  What? Get mad? Cry? Two more arts she’d perfected of late.

  Her biggest mistake had been letting herself fantasize about settling down with Dante, to raise a perfect little family. Like on TV. God knows she had no real life experience to draw on. She had gone from life on the streets to life in an orphanage. What did she know about child rearing? Families?

  That didn’t stop her from dreaming the impossible dream. But it was a long drop off cloud nine.

  She picked up the test kit. Set it down. She couldn’t be pregnant. Maybe it was the flu. A virus. Stress even. Except…none of those things swelled your breasts.

  She sighed. There was nothing for it. Closing the bathroom door, she opened the box.

  Her cell phone rang. She jumped, dropping the stick as she raced out of the bathroom. Where, oh, where had she left her goddamn phone? On the floor. Of course.

  She answered with a breathless “Hello.”

  “You sound out of breath.” It was Dante. The soft hitch that always hit her abdomen at the sound of his voice was even stronger now. The baby?

  He chuckled, his voice low, husky. “Am I, um, disturbing something?”

  That was her cue to tell him she was masturbating, thinking of him…

  “No, actually I just got back from a walk,” she said. Not really a lie. “Where are you?”

  “Nowhere fun.”

  Disappointment resettled on her shoulders like a buzzard interrupted. They never said where they were, but this time she had secretly hoped he’d say, “Surprise! I’m in the lobby.”

  She moved to the window and looked out at the tropical downpour. “Well, you’re missing beautiful weather here. Sunny. Hot.”

  “Rub it in.”

  “Any chance you’ll get away later in the week?”

  “No. In fact, I may be out of touch for a while.”

  A while could mean a week or months. “Can you be a little more specific?”

  “No.”

  Just no. Not, no, I’m sorry. Just no.

  Damn it, she was tired of this. Of not knowing where he went, or when he’d be back. Or where she stood in the bigger scheme of his life.

  Oh, like he knows where you always go, and when you’re coming back. And how life seems gray when you’re not with him.

  “Okay, then,” she said. “I’ll let you go.”

  “Wait. You sound upset. I know this was short notice. And I promise I’ll make it up.”

  “This was supposed to be a makeup for the last time. Or was it the time before that?” She wished she could do sarcasm without sounding whiney.

  “What do you want me to say? You know—”

  “Yeah.” She cut him off, not wanting to hear all the things that reminded her of how unimportant she was in his life. “I know.”

  Background noise, voices, filtered through on his end of the phone. He wasn’t alone. Jesus, they couldn’t even have a decent argument.

  His voice dropped. “Look, I’ve got to go. Will you be available when I get back?”

  Available? She bit her lip to keep from screeching. That’s all it was to him. Sex.

  “If I’m not, I’m sure you’ll find someone else who is,” she snapped.

  “You want dependable, get a Volvo.” He sighed. “Look, if this is about what we’ve discussed before…” Another sigh. “I’m not white-picket-fence material, Cat.”

  She recalled the conversation. She’d brought up the subject of commitment, had thought maybe they’d had something special enough to label. Something beyond yes-oh-sweet-lord-fuck-me-now-please.

  Memories of all their fun times toge
ther shimmered. She’d been tickled to learn he played a mean game of handball. She’d left him in the dirt at a motocross track and then had to fight to beat him to the finish line. He’d taken her sailing—her first time ever—and had run her bikini up with the sail. She’d made certain his snow white ass had gotten just as sunburned as hers.

  Everything they did seemed so good, so right.

  And after all they’d done, they couldn’t even discuss commitment? She’d called him a chicken.

  He’d parried by declaring himself committed to his work, his country.

  But no man could serve two masters. Or mistresses.

  And who should be called chicken now? Bawk, bawk, bawk. Tell him.

  “If that’s what you need,” Dante went on. “I understand.”

  You don’t understand shit. She struggled to hold her tongue, but lost. “Fuck the Volvo. All I need is you.”

  Muffled sounds came across the connection—he had his hand across the phone while talking to someone else. He hadn’t even heard what she said. Tears stung her eyes.

  “Look,” he came back on, voice harried. “I’ve got to go. Can we rain check this?”

  The test kit in the bathroom…She couldn’t rain check a baby.

  “No. We can’t. This is good-bye, Dante. For good.”

  Chapter 20

  Key West, Florida

  July 9

  (Present Day)

  Dante’s eyes snapped open.

  His experiment had worked. But at a price. He felt emotionally battered. Fractured. His memories of Cat held no middle ground; they had all been extremes.

  Hate. Avenge.

  Joy. Ecstasy. Hope.

  Despair. Loss.

  Fuck! He wanted to weep and laugh, to kill and to protect. It was tearing him in two, destroying him bit by bit.

  He sucked in air, seeking control. He still had a fierce hard-on, painful. His cock throbbed, demanding attention, release. It would be so easy to jack off, but he refused to give her another victory.

  He sat up, ignoring the slight dizziness as he lurched toward the bathroom. The shower. The water was cold, stinging his skin. But instead of easing his hard-on, the needles of spray stimulated. The sensation intensified, his skin tightening, his balls aching, closing in.

  Nothing…mattered…except…

  Fuck. Fuck her. Fucking her. Jesus, if she were here right now…

  “Oh, baby, let me take care of that. Shhh,” Cat whispered as she dropped to her knees, tugged open his pants.

  His cock sprang forth, a heat-seeking missile. Armed, ready. His legs shook with the effort to keep it under control, to hold back.

  “I know what you need.” More whispers before her mouth closed over his need, her lips stretching to take him in.

  Deeper…yes. Suck it…yes. Harder…yes.

  She knew. She always knew. At times like this, she sensed his desperation and offered ease, comfort. Made his world right once again.

  Deeper…yes. Harder…yes. His hands speared though her hair. His cock disappeared in and out, glistening wet, her pace now frantic.

  She was in control. He was at her mercy.

  No more.

  Dante opened his eyes, took a deep breath.

  He was sitting in the shower, the water no longer running. That he still had a hard-on made him feel fractionally better. He’d won that round.

  Climbing to his feet, he didn’t bother drying off. He threw on a pair of sweats, his sneakers, and took off for a run.

  He returned an hour later, exhausted and pissed. But good pissed. The run had cleared the fog. He took a real shower then made his way to the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator, let the cold air revive him. He opened the cabinet, closed it. No coffee fairy. Damn.

  He turned back to the fridge. According to the digital clock on the microwave, it wasn’t quite 10 a.m, but in the immortal words of Jimmy Buffet, “It’s five o’clock somewhere.”

  He grabbed a beer and slipped outside to the small patio. Plunking down into the lone lawn chair, he took a long swig, finally ready to examine what had popped out of the Pandora’s box that was his mind.

  This was exactly why he’d refused to explore hypnosis further in the hospital. The memories he wanted to recall—those lost times in prison—remained fuzzy, beyond his reach. Whereas the people and times he wanted to forget—mainly Cat—blew into his mind anytime he lowered his guard.

  Be objective. Right.

  How about…just being honest. He’d loved Cat, had even thought of leaving the Agency, to settle down, to start a family. That he’d never told her that was a small consolation. Rocco thought he was insane, but he understood. So had Max. Harry had been fatalistic. “I don’t get what’s so damn special about the broad? Is the sex that damn phenomenal?”

  At the time, Dante had ignored Harry’s lone voice of cynicism. But maybe Harry had been the only one who was right. Maybe Dante had been blinded.

  Or blindsided.

  The videos—her betrayal. It always came back to that.

  Well, so much for being honest with himself. He leaned his head back and let the sea breeze soothe him. As his mind calmed, a single detail from his time with Cat surfaced.

  The painting. In the hotel lobby.

  It had been a church. Nothing spectacular, as he recalled. In fact, compared to some of the others in that same display, it seemed fairly plain. But Cat had been mesmerized. The artist’s style had struck a deep chord with her.

  The look on her face had haunted him. There had been…longing. Remembrance.

  Shit. He set his beer aside. It wasn’t the painting’s style that hit her. It was the subject. The church.

  And what he’d watched flicker across her face had been homesickness. Dante had seen that same poignant mix of pain and elation flash across a soldier’s face every time a letter from home found its way across the Middle East to the fields of war.

  That church was a clue to Cat’s past. Maybe not the key, but at least a piece of the puzzle. He tried to focus on the painting’s details. Who the hell had the artist been?

  They’d never returned to check.

  He pushed out of the lawn chair. Back inside his apartment, he turned on his laptop. A Google search on church paintings came back with eleven gazillion hits. A total waste of 2.1 seconds.

  Next he looked up the resort they’d stayed at and browsed the lobby photographs. Nothing. So he called the place.

  “The art shows change quarterly,” the desk clerk told him.

  “This would have been two years ago last December,” Dante said.

  December twenty-third. Room 1223.

  “I’m sorry, sir, I don’t have access to that information,” she began.

  “How about the concierge? He seemed to know a lot about the shows.”

  “Hold, please.”

  A few minutes later the concierge answered.

  Dante identified himself as a previous guest. “That first Christmas the hotel opened, they had artwork displayed in the lobby.”

  “Ah, yes. ‘Churches of the World.’ It was my personal favorite.”

  Dante scribbled a note. “There was a certain painting I’d like to find for my anniversary. Perhaps you could help me find the artist’s name?”

  “Actually, he was a local at the time. Paul Patterson. I believe he’s since moved back to Connecticut.”

  After thanking the man, Dante did a second search using the artist’s name. Paul Patterson, artist, didn’t have nearly the web presence of Paul Patterson, Mega-Realtor.

  And while two galleries had one painting each, neither were of churches. The bio was old, stating that Paul and his wife, Pearl, lived in the Caribbean.

  Logging on to a different database, Dante ran the names again and scored a phone listing and address in Waterbury, Connecticut.

  He dialed and voila!, Pearl Patterson answered.

  “This is Dan Hogan. I’m trying to reach Paul Patterson,” Dante said. “I’m interested in a painting that
I saw in Anguilla two years ago.”

  He knew by the way Pearl caught her breath what her next words would be.

  “My husband died ten months ago. Emphysema. He so hated when I nagged him about smoking.” She sighed with a sad resignation. “There is a local dealer who has some of his works. I’m sorry, which one did you say?”

  “These were churches—” Dante looked at his notes. “‘Churches of the World.’ The one I’m looking for was white and had bright red flowers.”

  “Oh, I think I recall that one. Paul was obsessed with God after being diagnosed. That was his last project, in fact. But I don’t believe any of those are available.”

  “Do you by chance know where the churches he chose were located?”

  “Me? No. But if you’ll leave your number, I’ll check with my daughter. She kept most of her father’s sketch books and notes when I moved into assisted living. I brought very little here.”

  Dante thanked the woman and hung up, disappointed, but not surprised. Untraceable cologne. A vague painting. So much for contemplating his navel.

  No sooner had he closed his phone than it rang again. It was Travis Franks.

  “Tell me something good.” Dante went in search of his beer. He had to go to the store today.

  “I e-mailed you copies of Remi St. James’s medical files. I ran everything on the forms, and as expected, it’s all fabricated.”

  “I’m batting a hundred today. Any luck getting the passenger lists in and out of Freeport?

  “I got ’em, but no hits against Cat’s known aliases. So far everyone that went in and out within that time period appears legit. She could have used one name in, a different one out.”

  “Or left by boat. Or even went to another island and flew out.”

  “I’ll expand the search. In the meantime, I’ll forward the passenger manifests I have. Scan the names, see if anything pops up for you.”

  After disconnecting, Dante felt more frustrated than ever. He checked e-mail and paged through the medical records on Remi St. James. The man had dropped a small fortune on his treatment. Which if St. James was as rich as was rumored, he could have well afforded. Travis was already attempting to trace St. James’s bank accounts, but Dante doubted Cat would have been stupid enough to access those accounts and leave a paper trail.