"The guys are tired of waiting," Pete said. Below, other workers huddled in the scant shade, eating their lunches while casting glances in Kieran’s direction. “We got over a hundred lonely men, and considering they're shareholders, they're pretty much committed for the duration."
"The duration" could last several additional years. Plans called for a movie complex, a mini mall, a golf course, a school, and private houses and condominiums to replace the trailers and old cabins where most of the men lived.
But unless something changed soon, there wouldn't be any children to attend that school. A few married men had joined the project early on, but they'd dropped out when their wives rebelled against the isolation.
Kieran shrugged. "You want to hold a dance and advertise for dates, go right ahead. But you might wait until Halloween, because what shows up could be scary.”
"It's worth a try." Pete slapped his cap back into place. "Thanks, Kier."
"Think nothing of it."
As the men turned away, Lew added, "You should drop by. A little feminine companionship wouldn't do you any harm, either."
Kieran gave him a distant nod. Getting mixed up with a woman was the last thing he needed right now. It could be hard living alone, but although he had the normal masculine urges, he channeled his energy into work.
By the time the men trooped out of earshot, Kieran's thoughts had returned to the fax. Beatrice French Bartholomew. There was the kind of feminine companionship a man could live without. It was just like his cousin to turn up now, trying to claim an inheritance to which she had no right.
Five years ago, Kieran's uncle, Albert French, had left him Hidden Hot Springs. The inheritance had arrived unexpectedly, at a low point in Kieran's life. His construction company was drowning in red ink and his fiancée had deserted him.
Initially, he’d been dubious about the value of the crumbling resort along the back roads of San Diego County. While producing zero income, it had saddled him with a hefty tax bill.
Then, on a trip to clear out his uncle's possessions from an old shack, Kieran was struck by the possibilities of the hot springs and the surrounding canyon. Secluded among pepper trees, the site reflected an older, gentler time. During the 1920s, it had been a popular getaway for the Hollywood set. The Great Depression had siphoned off its business, until a facelift during the 1950s drew renewed patronage. In the Sixties, however, changing fashions and new resorts along the coast had forced its closure—permanently, so it seemed.
But the beauty remained. The spring water ran hot and clear, a luxury for relaxation and bathing. Furthermore, Hidden Hot Springs was only a few hours' drive away from millions of residents of San Diego and Orange counties.
With the right convention and resort facilities, it could turn into a money-maker. But he’d required capital.
Rejected by bankers and investors, Kieran hit on a scheme. Many of his friends were in construction and related fields. Like pioneers of old, they could pool their money and expertise to build the community themselves. He’d offered shares in lieu of cash, and found plenty of takers.
He’d spent years drawing up plans, securing permits and putting utilities in place. They'd broken ground last winter on a hotel and hoped to complete it by fall, when the tourist season began.
And now Albert's troubled daughter, Beatrice French Bartholomew, had reappeared.
She'd been estranged from her father for more than a decade, after a series of run-ins with the law, including an arrest for a fraudulent investment plan. After she escaped prosecution by testifying against her partners, she’d borrowed thousands of dollars from her father to pay her bills, money that he couldn’t afford, and never repaid it. Albert had been forced to live on this tumbledown property in a cabin barely fit for occupancy. No wonder he’d excluded her from the will.
Then, this morning, Kieran had received news from his attorney that she'd filed suit, claiming he had taken advantage of his uncle when Albert was ill and feebleminded. Ill and feebleminded? That old coot had hiked three miles with Kieran a month before he died, and beaten him at Scrabble, too.
The problem was, the will had been handwritten and witnessed by a couple of transients who couldn't be found. The will was also imprecise, leaving the property to "Kieran French and his wife" in anticipation of a marriage that had never taken place.
Beatrice's suit included the contention that, since Kieran had no wife, the will was invalid. Nonsense, but annoying nonsense. The woman would seize on any pretext to try to take his property.
Kieran would see Beatrice in hell before he gave her Hidden Hot Springs. Losing the land wouldn't just hurt him, it would cheat a lot of good men who'd trusted him.
Let them have their dance. Hey, he hoped that damn thing worked out. Maybe they'd draw a few nice ladies, although that would surprise him. In any case, Kieran French didn't have time to get mixed up with women, nice or not.
Somehow, he had to prove that Uncle Albert really meant for him to have this property.
*
"Mail-order brides? Somebody must be joking." Samantha's boss held out his phone. "Look at that!"
She glanced at the website notice on the screen. It read: "Mail-Order Brides! A hundred red-blooded men need WOMEN for serious relationships. Come to our mixer! Friday, 8 p.m., Recreation Hall, Hidden Hot Springs." There was a link to directions.
“I'll bet the place doesn't exist,” Samantha said. “It might be a mad mugger luring naïve women into the underbrush."
“You’re quite the skeptic,” observed Fred Low, owner of Low's Del Mar Travel.
“I have reason to be.”
Fred leaned on the edge of her desk. "I've heard of it. They're building a convention center out there."
"Well, I can't imagine who'd go for something like that." Samantha pictured a bunch of sweaty men waiting to seize their hapless prey. "Certainly not me."
Fred smiled. "Good. You're an excellent secretary. I'd like to keep you around a while longer."
"Sure, if my ex-fiancé doesn't catch up with me."
In the weeks since her interrupted wedding, Samantha had changed jobs and moved a few miles north to the beach community of Del Mar. Although Hank was locked up, his accomplice had escaped detection, the stolen jewels were missing and Samantha remained the only witness.
She could have kicked herself for flinging that ring at him. It had disappeared, and the police hadn't been able to find any of the other loot. Only Samantha and the toupee could link Hank to the robbery. Without her testimony, he was likely to go free.
She missed her friends, but the deputy district attorney said it was too dangerous to contact them. The accomplice might be watching, and the trial was still a month away. She'd had to dump her cell phone and have her mail forwarded to a post office box rather than to her new apartment.
"You should be safe here." Fred gazed out the window, past shady residential streets to a glimmer of ocean. "Del Mar's a quiet town."
"I'm counting on it." The phone rang and Samantha answered. "It's for you," she said. "That tour to the British Isles."
"Right." He retreated to his office.
“You forgot your…” She lifted the tablet, but he’d vanished into his office.
It amused her that Fred liked to read the personal postings. He claimed he found them entertaining. Mary Anne used to read the personal ads, she recalled fondly, missing her friend. Both her friends.
She’d had to leave them behind. Then, after the trial, Samantha hoped to fly off on another adventure. Last week, she'd come across an ad for her dream job: working on the recreation staff of a cruise ship out of Miami.
She’d applied at once. What could be more fun than cruising from island to island on a boat full of delicious food? The job started in August, by which date Hank's trial should be over.
When Samantha glanced at the tablet, the ad leapt out. Mail-order brides! What kind of men would place an ad like that? Your brainless macho types, she supposed. And what kind of wom
an would answer? Might be interesting to find out, but she had better things to do than drive to the middle of nowhere.
The phone rang again. It was a customer checking on a cruise to Central America, and after that a man called to book a trip to Nashville. Five o'clock arrived before Samantha knew it.
She returned the tablet to Fred, although not before sending herself a link to the ad. Just for laughs.
What a dull life I lead, she reflected as she let herself out onto the second-floor open-air walkway. Here it was Friday, and she didn't dare go out to a club or even to the movies.
Just wait till she sailed away in August. Samantha could almost hear the steel drums of the West Indies and taste the Jamaican rum.
Her thoughts broke off as something moved below in the parking lot, near her red sports car. Samantha frowned. What was that blond man doing?
Sunlight gleamed off a crowbar as he swung it. He was going to smash the window!
"Stop!" Samantha yelled. "Robber! Robber!"
When the man spun around, she gasped. There was no mistaking the sharp planes of Hank's face beneath the shaggy wig. What was he doing out of jail? How had he found her?
Nobody outside the district attorney's office knew her whereabouts, and they’d assured her that the information was closely guarded. The police had removed a GPS unit clumsily—and illegally—positioned underneath the chassis of her car.
A driving fury seized Samantha. How dare he hunt her? What was he planning to do, destroy her car for revenge?
Yes, he’d raised the crowbar again. Ignoring the inner voice commanding her to call the police, she clattered down the stairs. Her voice echoed across the parking lot. "Get away from there! Crook! Thief!"
Several onlookers paused to watch. “Call the police,” she ordered a man. He just stood there gaping.
Hank hefted the crowbar. "Stay away. I'll use this on you if I have to."
Samantha broke her stride a few dozen feet away. Why didn't he flee? There were too many witnesses to attack her here, or so she hoped, although they appeared too busy taking his picture with their phones to call 9-1-1. And why was he wearing that hideous wig? A man with brown eyes and dark stubble on his chin had no business trying to pass for blond.
Hank marched toward her. "Unlock the car or I’ll smash it."
Samantha dodged back and braced herself. She'd taken a self-defense class a few months ago, so she knew exactly what to do.
She screamed.
It wasn't some puny little "eek!" either. She'd practiced in her car on the freeway, like the instructor advised. What issued from Samantha's throat was a bloodcurdling, heart-pounding, ear-rending howl guaranteed to raise blood pressure for miles around.
Upstairs, a door banged open. "What the hell is going on?" demanded Fred's nasal voice. "I'm calling the cops!"
Hank balanced on the balls of his feet, weighing his options, and then turned and ran. His wiry body—why had she ever thought he was well-built?—vanished behind a parked truck.
"And don't come back!" yelled Samantha.
"Are you all right?"
She looked up toward the balcony. The setting sun blared into her field of vision, obscuring Fred's face. "Yes, thanks to you. That was Hank. I’m sorry, but I have to find somewhere else to hide."
Her boss leaned over the railing, disappointment twisting his mouth. "I don't suppose you'd consider returning when this is over?"
"With any luck, I'll be headed for the Caribbean." Samantha waved. "Thanks for everything."
She imagined she could hear Fred's sigh across the parking lot. The other motorists, perhaps disappointed in the lack of TV-worthy action, had driven off.
Not until she turned on the ignition and started to back out did Samantha realize her hands were shaking. She could have been killed! In her anger, she'd acted like an idiot.
Fred had come to the rescue. If Hank turned up again, she might not be that fortunate. She had to find somewhere to lie low. Someplace a whole lot more remote than Del Mar.
She headed inland toward her apartment, traveling well in excess of the speed limit. If Hank knew where she worked, he might also have figured out where she lived. But she refused to leave without her clothes.
The underground parking garage had a locked gate, and Samantha let herself in with her card-key. She halted beside the stairs and ran up two flights.
Letting herself into the apartment, she checked for signs of an intruder. Then she called the district attorney's office on the disposable phone they’d given her.
As soon as the secretary, Mrs. Gray, answered, Samantha identified herself. "Where's Dick Enright?" He was the deputy D.A. assigned to Hank's case.
"I'm sorry, he's left for the weekend."
"Remember me?" Samantha pressed. "I'm the only witness to that string of jewel robberies, and Hank Torrance just tried to kill me." A slight exaggeration, but it had the desired impact.
Mrs. Gray gasped. "A judge set bail this morning. He must have been released this afternoon. You should have been notified."
"Well, I wasn't!"
"We'd better send a policeman to keep an eye on you." The secretary had a dry voice with a Midwestern accent. The first time they spoke on the phone, Samantha had formed a mental image of a sedate lady with graying hair pulled into a bun. "Give me your location and I'll take care of it. I'll page Mr. Enright, too."
"Just give him a message," Samantha said. "I'm going into hiding again and this time there won't be any traces. I'll check in by phone."
"But Mr. Enright will want to know ..."
"See you at the trial." Samantha hung up, burning with anger and hoping she hadn't directed too much of it at poor Mrs. Gray.
Out of the closet came two suitcases covered with travel stickers. Racing around the apartment, Samantha threw her clothes and cosmetics into the bags with practiced speed. She'd escaped a revolution in a small African country once, and the only thing she'd accidentally left behind had been a collection of matchbook covers from local nightclubs.
In went the blue garter, the white lace stockings, and the darn wedding dress she hadn't been able to return for fear Hank's accomplice would be watching. Since that hat was too big for the luggage, Samantha stuck it in a shopping bag and staggered out the door.
She piled everything into the car and zoomed onto the street, her heart thudding. Where could she go? How was she to find a new home and a job where she'd be safe when even the district attorney's office had let her down?
Her brain kicked into action. She could head north a few miles toward Oceanside or beyond, to Orange County or Los Angeles. Among all those millions of people, it should be easy to disappear.
Then she spotted the gray sedan in her rearview mirror.
She had never seen that particular vehicle before, but there was no mistaking Hank at the wheel. The wig had slipped to one side, so that he resembled a crazed refugee from a Marx Brothers movie.
The signal light ahead flicked to yellow. Samantha stomped on the gas and shot through.
Hank roared up on her tail. Since the sports car could outrun him on an open road, he obviously wasn’t about to give her the chance.
Samantha remembered the night before the wedding, the only occasion when she'd let Hank drive her car. He'd fussed at length with adjusting the seat, then screeched away from the curb with breakneck acceleration. "Great wheels!" he'd shouted.
The jerk had probably been planning to use it for a getaway car.
Now Samantha's mind worked feverishly. The freeway was just ahead. If she drove north, she'd be stuck on a straightaway with few exits. Too easy for Hank to force her over.
Instead, she went south. Maybe in the welter of freeways around San Diego, she could lose him.
Her hands slipped on the wheel. She’d better to stay alert. If Hank didn't kill her, an accident might.
That still left the problem of where to go when she lost him. Preferably a place where, if he showed up, people might protect her instead of stan
ding around snapping cell phone pictures.
As she charged up a ramp and merged into traffic, a name popped into Samantha's mind. Hidden Hot Springs.
Hidden was part of its name. And if a hundred burly construction workers couldn't defend her, who could? It was a bizarre idea, but the best she was likely to hit on.
Samantha wove between two trucks, trying to stay out of bumping distance of Hank’s tubby sedan. He might be mad enough to cause a crash, just for spite.
Why hadn't she sensed his true character during that wildly romantic interlude in Acapulco? Why on earth had she believed she was ready to marry him?
Samantha gave a mental shrug as she shot past a bus into the fast lane. She'd followed lots of impulses in her twenty-eight years, and none had turned out as bad as this one. Chalk it up to the luck of the draw.
In another minute she could branch onto a freeway heading inland. From there, she'd be able to plot her way into the hinterlands and click on the exact directions to Hidden Hot Springs. But first she had to lose Hank.
A check of the mirrors showed him hanging a few feet behind her rear bumper. He flashed his headlights. She replied with a rude gesture.
The gray car edged forward. He was about to override her bumper!
Samantha stepped on the gas and the sports car leapt. To her surprise, Hank dropped back. A California Highway Patrol car, identifiable by the white front door against a black body, was approaching from the lanes on the right.
Samantha caught her breath, afraid he’d activate his flashers. Her speedometer read seventy, over the limit but not yet in the realm where a ticket was inevitable.
But seriously, shouldn’t she want him to stop her? The patrolman could protect her from Hank. He might also give her a ticket, though. Some people were like that.
The freeway transition lay dead ahead. If she made it, she might escape Hank and avoid a ticket. Samantha hit her turn signal, gave the patrolman a friendly wave and cut across four lanes of traffic. As she darted onto the connector ramp, she noticed a large truck blocking the patrol car from following.
The black and white had missed the turnoff, and so had Hank.
Run, Run, Runaway Bride Page 2
