by Nancy Bush
“You’re giving it back to her?” he asked.
“Well, it’s not mine, and I sure as hell don’t want it.”
“It’s not hers, either.”
“So you say, and I believe you, to a point. But Tucker took the bracelet from her and gave it to me, so that’s where it came from. Maybe she owns it rightfully.”
“Doubtful.”
“But it’s yours to take from her?”
“That’s what Victoria wants. It’s hers.”
“But you said it’s possible Stephen gave it to Teresa, and then if she gave it to Aimee . . . I mean . . . you don’t have any claim.”
“Let’s just go back at three and see what happens.”
“I think it would be better if I went alone.”
“Fat chance of that,” he said. “Whoever you are, Callie Cantrell or somebody else, I’m tired of either searching for you or following you around. We’re going together.”
Chapter Eleven
Fort-de-France. The pier. Blue-green water and the scent of the sea. Teresa breathed in deeply and closed her eyes. She was tired, rumpled, and afraid. For years she’d blindly followed Andre in whatever endeavor took his fancy, all the while thinking she was doing what she wanted. Without Andre she hadn’t wanted to live.
Rubbing the back of her neck and lifting her hair off her nape, she swallowed and picked up her bag. She’d had the cab driver drop her at the pier, just in case anyone was watching her, which was absurd, really, but she still went with the subterfuge. She sat on a bench for a while, then made her way to a taxi stand, thinking about Aimee’s apartment and Tucker. She hadn’t made a return flight. She didn’t know where she was going next.
All she knew was that she was taking Tucker with her.
Maybe I should get a room first and a cool drink.
She hated the idea of using any of her hard-earned cash. Grifting had always been an easy way to replenish diminishing funds, so she told the driver to take her to the hotel closest to the address she gave him for Tucker’s apartment and drop her there. Fifteen minutes later, she was plunking down her credit card for the one-night stay, wondering how much time she had before Andre would come looking for her.
She shivered. Part of her almost wanted him to come after her. A crazy part of herself that just couldn’t give him up. But no. It would be too dangerous for Tucker, who would fall into Andre’s killing sights by virtue of being Stephen Laughlin’s son.
That was the endgame, she figured. The Laughlins. Though Andre tried to be cagey about whatever he was really planning—calling himself The Messiah, going through all those crazy rituals—she knew him well . . . or at least the Andre he’d once been . . . and it was all about the money, really. She’d played along because she’d loved him so much.
What the fucking hell had been wrong with her for so long?
Dropping her bags inside the rose-and-cream room of the boutique hotel, she glanced at the bed longingly. A bath first, and then to climb between clean sheets where no one would wake her.
She succumbed, knowing she shouldn’t, knowing she might only have a short amount of time before the hounds were chasing her. But if all went well, it would be a while till Andre figured out exactly where she’d gone. He didn’t know about Tucker, so he might not think about Martinique and any connections she might have.
Turning the taps, her smile was hard as she thought back to the last time she’d been here. She’d been falling in love with Andre, playing a game of cat and mouse with him. In those days, he’d been freer, not as involved in his ultimate quest as he’d subsequently become. He’d talked about getting what was rightfully his, but there’d been lots of time and for a brief moment she’d thought he might chuck the whole plan and settle down with her on this beautiful island. She already knew then how to go after a mark and separate him from his cash. She’d actually tried her wiles on Andre and had learned that he was too savvy. He had been onto her, but instead of being angry, he had wanted to join forces with her, and it had been what she’d wanted too.
That’s what had done it for her: recognizing a soul mate. She had given herself over to him heart and soul and they’d screwed like rabbits even while they were picking out her next mark, whimsically always referred to as “Mark.” It had been dangerous and fun as they set up each stupid sap. Sometimes she’d acted like Andre was her boyfriend who had beaten her mercilessly in the past. Sometimes she’d played a working girl who was on the run from a terrible life of near slavery. Sometimes she had been just a lonely woman after a sad breakup. It didn’t matter what story she told, she had always finished with needing money and, of course, she had wanted to leave with “Mark,” her would-be savior. It was truly amazing how gullible men were.
They had worked their game long enough to start to feel the heat, and that’s when Andre had suggested they move to Los Angeles. Teresa had initially been reluctant. She liked their life on Martinique, even though they’d had to lie low a few times when one of their Marks had caught on too early to the scheme and gone to the authorities.
“Just one more,” she’d begged, hoping to delay leaving.
It had been a hard sell but then Andre had chosen her last Mark, pointing him out across the restaurant lounge of the Bakoua Beach Hotel. “He’s been hanging at the bar, and I’ve been listening. Family has money,” he’d whispered in her ear. “Make him fall in love with you.”
She’d loitered around the hotel, watching Mark for an entire day, keeping out of sight and eavesdropping wherever she could. He wasn’t much of a talker when he was sober, but once he had a few drinks, information had started spilling out. His brother and sister had been pissed off because dear old Dad had left him much of the fortune. He’d worked for the company, which was in real estate development. Everything had been going and blowing and he and Dad were putting deals together right and left and getting out at just the right time. His grasping siblings could just kiss his ass; they were getting nothing.
He’d given himself this trip to the Caribbean as a means of self-congratulation. He’d already been to Barbados, St. Croix, and St. Lucia, and now he was about as far south as he was going, though he’d thought about a stop in Venezuela. Problem was: dear old Dad wasn’t doing so hot, so Mark was going to have to head back and play the part of the dutiful son.
Teresa had originally planned to step into the room in her long, backless black dress, but, sizing him up, she’d changed for a more conservative knee-length sundress the color of pink champagne. She’d walked through the bar and stood at the edge of the covered patio, looking out toward the bay, pasting a forlorn expression on her face.
Then she’d turned an about-face and walked up to the bartender, asking if he knew what time the ferry docked at the Pointe du Bout side. “Looks like I’ve been stood up,” she had said. Mark had sat on her right, nursing his third drink that she’d seen.
“You need a ride somewhere?” he’d asked.
“Probably the airport,” she’d said sadly. “This was supposed to be our engagement trip, if you can believe that. But it’s hard to compete with a dead wife. I think he’s changed his mind, and he’s already left me.”
He had looked her up and down. “Then he’s an idiot.”
She had smiled.
“Sit down and let me buy you a drink first. Then we’ll get a cab together.” He had smiled at her and she had noticed how handsome he was. “I’m Jonathan Cantrell,” he had said.
“Teresa.”
“Just Teresa?”
“DuPres,” she had said, using her maiden name.
They hadn’t gotten a cab together. They’d gone straight to his room. Since she’d been with Andre she’d managed to get her dates dead drunk and rob them before anything but a sloppy petting session ensued, but with Jonathan, she’d never had that chance. Before she knew it they had both gotten naked and she was in the middle of an energetic lovemaking session, which had only fueled the thrill of the game. Thinking of Andre finding out had sent s
hivers beneath her skin and intensified her orgasm. She didn’t even have to fake it. She had determined she wouldn’t tell Andre, then thought maybe she would. No, she couldn’t . . . it was too dangerous....
She had stayed with Jonathan Cantrell the whole night and into the next day. She’d tried to call Andre, but Jonathan was on her like a blanket, so instead of merely rolling him she became his island lover.
The next night Andre had shown up at the hotel lounge and she’d felt his eyes burning into her as she’d sat with Jonathan’s arm draped possessively over her shoulder. She’d met his gaze and shaken her head. There was nothing she could do. When Andre left she had been scared that it was over with him. She had really loved him so much.
But then there was Jonathan, so maybe she could get over Andre?
Jonathan had taken her on an incredible shopping spree, showering her with jewelry and designer couture and treating her to sumptuous dinners in restaurants all over the city. She’d had more booty than she’d ever gotten before and she was trying to figure out how to haul it away with her and escape when Jonathan was called home: dear old Dad had died.
Jonathan had wanted her to come with him back to Los Angeles. She’d been sorely tempted, but had demurred. She had told him she really, really wanted to go but she had things to wrap up in Martinique. Yes, she was a US citizen. She had spun him a tale of being from a small Ohio town when in reality she’d been the daughter of a Gulf Coast fisherman and a beautiful, promiscuous thief and had simply rolled into the same life as her mother.
As soon as Jonathan was on a plane, she had gone back to Andre. They had a huge fight and she could still feel the way he’d wrapped his hands around her neck, squeezing and squeezing, until she’d felt real fear. But then he’d seen the swag she’d returned with and new thoughts circled his brain. Maybe a long-term mark wasn’t that bad of a plan. Maybe she could hook up with Jonathan Cantrell again when they got to Los Angeles. Andre would find them a special home base, and Teresa could continue to work her magic.
She’d thought about how Andre had almost strangled her. There was a dangerous side to him that she thrilled to, but she knew he was balanced on a knife’s edge and sometimes he went too far. Just thinking about it had made her want to throw him down and ride him. Adrenaline junkie. Yep, that’s what she was, but she’d never considered it a bad thing.
She had sought Jonathan out in Los Angeles. It wasn’t hard, as he lived large. His father’s death had coincided with a dip in the real estate market and though Jonathan had pretended like it was just a blip on the investment highway, while they had continued their relationship Teresa could tell he was losing money. Some of those real estate deals that had seemed like such a great deal had gone south in a hurry.
She’d had to walk away from him. He had sensed that she was pulling back and had tried to hang on, following her and spending damn near every minute with her, also spending damn near every dime of his fortune.
It was difficult to get free but she had managed it.
She’d grown tired of Jonathan, anyway. Too needy, toward the end. She’d been glad to be back full-time with the man she loved, even if Andre had grown a little too . . . the most fitting word was: superstitious. He had rules and regulations for every behavior. Like a grown-up version of “Don’t step on a crack or break your father’s back.” It had been noticeable enough that she’d read up on it and figured it had to be some form of obsessive/compulsive disorder.
Still . . . she had loved him. Even when he had started referring to himself as The Messiah. Whatever floats your boat, she had thought. She had a few quirks herself.
When he had commanded her to scrape up an acquaintance with Stephen Laughlin, she’d thought he wanted a repeat of the Cantrell situation and she’d gone along. But Andre had wanted to cut ties with her during the sting, and though he didn’t say so, she had sensed Stephen wasn’t just your average mark. Andre didn’t call him Mark; he called him Stephen. Teresa had started to understand this was the endgame.
So, she’d scraped up Stephen Laughlin’s acquaintance. It wasn’t as easy as some. He had been that rare guy who had been interested in a long-term relationship. A quick, hot affair had held no interest for him. She’d had to play the game a while before he did more than take her on dates and actually talk to her across the table.
How was she to know that Stephen would be a good guy? One who fell for her hard but was always nice to her. And the Laughlins had big money. They were in the cattle business and their acres of land and beef cattle in central California supported a multimillion, probably billion-dollar business. When Stephen had asked her to marry him, Andre had been thrilled. “Jackpot,” he whispered, but though Teresa had tried to keep from going that far, Andre had pushed the whole thing. There was another level here that she didn’t quite understand, and she had actually started feeling kind of bad about fooling him so much. But she had stuck by her love for Andre and decided to go for it, and so she had married Stephen, becoming Teresa Laughlin.
And then she’d gotten pregnant. That wasn’t supposed to happen. She’d thought about an abortion but never seemed to find the energy to do it. She was living on the Laughlin ranch at the time and only talking to Andre every week or so on her cell phone. He had seemed perfectly content to let the whole thing spin out, and Teresa had found herself getting very used to playing the part of Stephen Laughlin’s beautiful wife. That his grandmother, Victoria, and his mother, Talia, both pure bitches on wheels, had hated her only added to her sense of satisfaction with the whole thing. The longer she had stayed, the less she had wanted to leave.
But then Andre had dropped the bomb. “You need to kill him.”
“Kill him?” she’d laughed, thinking he was joking. “What are you talking about?”
“If he dies, you inherit everything.”
“Oh, I don’t even think that’s true.” She’d swept a hand across her burgeoning stomach, chilled to her core. If Andre knew about the baby . . .
“It is. Don’t question me. Just do it.”
He’d hung up on her and she’d stood for long moments, frozen like a statue. Surely he didn’t mean kill him, she’d told herself. That’s not what they were about.
But he had meant it, and as time passed and he heard nothing from her, he started texting that he was coming to do the job himself. At eight months pregnant, she couldn’t have him see her, so she had told him that she was working on the project.
“How?” he’d demanded. “Give me your plan.”
“Stephen has some friends who like me a lot. One in particular, Edmund Mikkels, likes me a little too much. I think I can . . . work on him.”
“Do it,” Andre had said, and in the background she had thought she heard a woman’s voice.
“Are you with someone?” she had asked, jealousy rising like bile in the back of her throat.
“I’m your messiah,” he had said. “Don’t ever forget.”
She hadn’t been sure what that meant, but she sure as hell didn’t want some skanky whore moving in on her man, so even before she delivered Tucker, she had started working on Mikkels. With thoughts of ripping the woman’s hair out by the roots, she had gone into full grifting mode: always being a little too friendly to Edmund, touching him on his arm, his back, brushing her breasts against him, finding ways to play the damsel in distress like the time she put two tires in the ditch outside his ranch/farm. The Mikkels family was deep into agriculture and Teresa had let Edmund know that she found the Laughlins’ singular investment in cattle repellant.
The subtle pressure had worked. Teresa could almost pinpoint the day when Edmund’s interest in her had changed from mild interest to out-and-out lust. Didn’t matter that she was pregnant. He would wait, and then they would be together.
When she went into labor and gave birth to Tucker she forgot every plan. Seeing that little baby just drove them from her mind. She fervently began to wish she could just be Stephen’s wife and Tucker’s mother.
&nb
sp; But Edmund Mikkels had been well and truly wound up and ready to go. If he even wondered about her new baby, he hadn’t acted like it. With Andre renewing his threatening texts if she didn’t get moving, she had stoked Edmund’s determination by complaining that Stephen just didn’t understand her, that he seemed to go out of his way to make her unhappy. Lies, all of it. But Edmund had focused on freeing her from her marriage prison with laserlike intensity. Teresa had barely had to do more than whisper a few words in his ear, he had been so amped to play the white knight . . . even if that included murdering his good friend.
She had been the one who had gotten cold feet. Stephen’s death was supposed to be an automobile accident, a hit-and-run echo of what had happened to his father, but she hadn’t been able to bring herself to do it. Stephen just didn’t deserve it. But Andre had been growing crazily determined so when Stephen’s friends invited him on a hunting trip and Edmund met her eye, she had swallowed back her own misgivings and just let it happen.
And then the hunting “accident.” She’d never heard the true particulars and didn’t really want to know. There had been a group of them, all experienced hunters, though Stephen had a tendency to “shoot golf,” as he joked, more than actual game. After being rushed to a hospital for a bullet wound in the back that ripped through to his front chest, Stephen had slipped into a coma and died. The bullet had done too much damage. His organs had shut down. Game over.
Edmund’s remorse had been so huge that everyone had believed it had been an accident. Stephen had inexplicably stepped in front of him when he’d been aiming at a deer. The man’s tears had even made Teresa wonder exactly what had gone down but she hadn’t been about to ask him. They’d barely had the funeral before Andre had demanded that Teresa come home. “Shouldn’t I stick around for some part of the inheritance?” she had asked. Wasn’t that the plan?
Andre wouldn’t listen. Get back here now, he’d texted, but she’d demurred because of Tucker. She told Andre that she had to wait or she would draw too much suspicion to herself. Not that it was easy living with Victoria Laughlin, who sent her cold sideways glances, or that she enjoyed any of Talia’s frequent appearances. That woman had been trouble, pure and simple. But at least Talia had left Teresa’s baby alone, as she wasn’t exactly the maternal type, whereas Victoria had been proprietary of Tucker in a way that had alarmed Teresa. She’d realized she had to get Tucker away from all of them.
