by Carol Caiton
"Okay, here's what's gonna happen," he said. "I'm gonna have Security take you back over to the medical center."
She started to protest, so he held up a hand.
"Just for a little while. I'll call over there and tell them to put you someplace where you can have some privacy. Then I'm gonna go have a talk with Kyle and see if we can't straighten this out. Okay?"
She nodded and gave in. "Yes. Okay."
"Good."
He pulled out his phone and called for a pick-up. When that was taken care of, he held out a hand to her. "C'mon, sweetheart, let's get you outta here so I can go see Kyle."
He waited with her outside the storeroom then pulled out his phone again when she was safely on her way to Medical Services.
"Case here."
"Jeremiah, I want a printout of Jessica Breckenridge's movements from the time she got out of her car at RUSH this morning."
"I'll call it in."
"Okay. Bring it to me in front of the holding room where your people stashed Kyle."
"Give me ten."
"You've got five."
The chief of security disconnected before Michael took his phone away from his ear. Five minutes later, one of RUSH's security vehicles sped toward him and Jeremiah passed over the information he'd asked for. Michael glanced over it, paused when he got toward the bottom of the last page, and stared.
The guard standing post at the holding room door moved aside as Michael approached. "He's pretty angry in there," he told Michael. "Might be a good idea if I came in with you."
Michael stuck his face in front of the small, wire-enforced window.
Shit, Kyle.
"I hear you," he said to the guard. "But I'd be pretty fucking angry too if somebody locked me up."
Hell, his heartbeat was already tripping over itself just knowing he was gonna walk inside that underground room and listen to the fucking door close behind him.
He punched the intercom button. "Yo, Ky, that chair was supposed to be for you to sit on, not destroy."
Kyle, seated on the floor across from the door, lifted his head and stared back at the window with cold, dead eyes. "Get me outta this fucking cell, Michael."
"Yeah, I'm gonna do that. But I need to come in there and talk to you first. You good with that?"
"Fuck you, Vassek."
"Yeah, that's what I thought."
Michael tried not to think about his sweaty palms as he punched in the code that would unlock the door.
"Jeremiah, I want your eyes glued to this glass until I come out."
"You got it."
The lock clicked and Michael sucked in a hard breath before crossing the threshold. Being in the fucking tunnels was bad enough. He knew the code to get back out of the holding room, but he wanted Jeremiah there in case he didn't have the goddamn presence of mind to remember the code himself.
The door closed and locked behind him with a series of mechanical clicks that made him break out in a sweat.
"Shit, Kyle, there's nothin' left of that chair."
Mangled almost beyond recognition, it had been tossed into a corner, never again to fold out. Chips of concrete littered the floor where it had been beaten against the wall, and the metal door behind Michael was dented.
Kyle, legs pulled up and feet spread apart, sat with his arms draped over his knees and stared as Michael dropped down beside him, leaned back against the wall, and stretched out his own legs.
"Ya know," he said, "I get the impression your little prom queen doesn't speak English as well as, say, Chinese. Or Farsi. Or maybe French or German or Portugese."
"You run a background check on her?" Kyle leaned his head back against the wall.
"A while back. Yeah."
"Fucking jerk."
"Yep, that's me."
"So what's your point?"
"I got a couple of 'em."
"Figures."
Michael crossed one ankle over the other. "Ya know, last night, at one-twelve in the morning to be exact, you pulled into my drive-way."
Kyle didn't answer.
"Where do you think Jessica went?"
"Home. That's where I left her."
"Yeah. With nobody to unload to—unlike you."
Kyle snorted. "She has a sister and a telephone, Michael."
"Yeah, I know that. And Hannah's a real sweetheart who probably wouldn't have minded being woken up in the middle of the night by a sister she hardly knows. But maybe Jessica doesn't know that. So I figure she bawls her eyes out, probably stays up half the night waiting to see if you'll call, and when you don't, she figures she'll try to make herself feel better some other way, like with a body massage, maybe get her hair done . . . you know what I'm talkin' about—all that shit a woman does to pamper herself. Maybe to make up for a pair of comforting arms she wishes she had."
Kyle's eyes closed and, right in front of him, Michael watched him age five years. Fuck, man.
"So your people had me thrown into a frigging jail cell, huh?" Kyle muttered.
"Not a jail cell. It's a cool-down room. RUSH is a hotbed of alpha males." Michael explained, then sighed. "Let me ask you something. What would you have done to her if Security hadn't grabbed you?"
Kyle didn't answer.
Michael looked down at the printout Jeremiah's people had prepared. "Here," he said, passing it to Kyle.
Kyle opened his eyes. "What is it?"
"It's a minute-by-minute account of Jessica's whereabouts since she pulled into the parking garage at eight this morning."
"Geez," Kyle said. But he didn't reach for it. "You design the program?" he asked instead.
"Yeah, I designed the program." Michael put the printout down on the floor between them. "I sent her back over to the medical center to wait for you."
Kyle breathed in, good and long, then exhaled. "Tell her to go home. Jess and I are through."
"What?"
"You heard me. Send her home. I won't be seeing her anymore."
"Why the hell not?"
Kyle turned his head and met his eyes. "Because she's turning me into a fucking maniac, that's why."
Yeah, Michael remembered feeling the same way about a certain cop, even after he had his rings on Rachel's finger. He pushed himself up to his feet. "Then I guess it won't matter to you that Interpol's been keeping tabs on your little prom queen."
At least that got his attention. "Interpol? What the hell do they want?"
Michael ran his palm along the back of his neck to catch some of the sweat trickling down from his scalp.
"It seems little Jessica Breckenridge caught the eye of some nasty people—a guy named Qasim Zafir—who likes white women with blonde hair and tried to buy her from her father. And now the guy's dead. Murdered. Interpol thinks there might be some people taking exception to him being dead. Kinda messes with the flow of money, ya know? So if anybody's thinking about a little revenge . . . like snatching her up and taking her back to the Middle East, it could lead Interpol straight to the people in the organization."
"Shit."
"Yeah. And there's something else you maybe should know about. While we were out in the lobby at Medical Services waiting for her to come out—you know, there at the end? Well it seems your little sweetheart was checking into birth control."
Kyle's eyes darkened with pain.
"It's in that report Jeremiah printed out." Michael pointed down at the sheaf of papers.
"Jesus, Michael," Kyle breathed, "you play dirty."
"Yeah." He grinned. "I'm good, aren't I?"
"Fuck you," Kyle said, getting to his feet as well. "Hey, you okay?"
"Yeah, why?"
"Your shirt's soaked like your sweating out the flu or something."
Michael faced Jeremiah through the wired glass and nodded for him to open the door. "Yeah, well, I don't do too good in confined spaces, ya know?"
Kyle paled. "Fuck, man, get the hell out of here. Go. I'm good." He reached down for the printout he hadn't wanted to both
er with a couple of minutes ago. "Am I free to go?"
"Yeah, you're free to go," Michael said as the door opened. "You still want me to send Jessica home? Or do you wanna go see if she'll take your sorry ass back? Again."
"Fuck you, Michael."
"Yeah, well, I've gotta send Jeremiah over there with you 'cause you went a little ape-shit, ya know?"
"Yeah, I got that."
"Besides, I think Jeremiah's got a thing for Hannah's little sister. You screw up again and he might just pick up where you left off."
Kyle narrowed a glare at the chief of security and Michael laughed. Then he laughed harder when Jeremiah had the fucking good sense to grin at Kyle.
Oh, yeah, it felt good to mess with him the way they messed with each other a lifetime ago. Damn good.
"Ya know, Kyle, one of my business partners asked his wife to marry him one day, then, something like the day after that, he marched her ass onto an airplane and married her out in Las Vegas. Seems she was making him a little ape-shit too."
CHAPTER 24
She was standing in an examination room with her back to the door, staring out through the blinds. Kyle didn't think she could see anything since it was dark outside, but she stood unmoving, and he stood in the doorway watching her.
He could see that she'd had her hair trimmed. Its even length rested against her shoulder blades, shiny and silky looking. What would he have done if Michael's security guards hadn't stopped him? Honest to God, he didn't know. He would have yanked her up out of that chair, but beyond that he just didn't know.
The extremes that drove him needed to let up. Christ, the fury he'd felt when he thought she'd given herself to another man . . . . And the pain. Jesus, the pain had been like a coil of barbed wire choking him from the inside out.
He took another minute to replay that conversation, remembering the way she'd stared down at the tablecloth. Remembering how she said she didn't know if he wanted her anymore. How difficult it had been for her to tell him what she wanted to say. That she'd come to RUSH because she needed comforting arms. That she'd cried. Very much.
Hell.
He allowed himself a margin of leniency. This time. Because that whole scene would have gone down differently if she'd arranged her explanation some other way. If she'd told him first that she'd cried because she didn't know if he still wanted her. That she hadn't had anyone to turn to for comfort so she'd treated herself to some pampering—creature comforts, she'd called it. Hell, she'd even used the term before they sat down.
She knew she hadn't said it well. He hadn't been locked down in that holding room for more than a few minutes before Michael showed up. Somehow she'd gotten hold of him, pretty damned fast, and had managed to make him understand what she'd been trying to say.
The proof of her integrity was printed on the papers in his back pocket. But he'd known all along he could trust her. Just as he'd known all along that she wanted children. He was the one who hadn't been up front about that. Yet she'd gone and talked to Dr. Amy Sturrow about birth control shots while not even sure if he still wanted her.
Christ, honey.
More . . . every frigging minute.
How the hell full could a man's heart get before it wouldn't hold any more?
"Jess?"
Her name wasn't much more than a whisper because it was his turn to wonder if she still wanted him.
She spun around, the look on her face filled with hope and fear and so much apology it stole his breath.
"Kyle," she whispered, covering her mouth with shaky fingers. "Please, Kyle, please forgive me. I said it all wrong."
He strode toward her, seeing nothing but the need in her eyes, and pulled her into his arms, the flood of emotion he felt so deep and raw he never wanted to let go.
"I'm sorry too, Jess. For not trusting you." He held her like that, felt her body tremble with her own emotions.
She was crying, her arms tight around his waist, her face buried in his shirt, and he ached for them both.
"Marry me, Jess. Now. Tonight," he whispered against her hair. "I can't keep going like this honey. I need you with me."
And then he couldn't speak anymore. The words just wouldn't work past his throat.
"Yes," she sobbed. "Yes. Tonight."
He shut his eyes and let her answer seep into his cells, little by little, settling inside him. From this moment on, he'd make sure there were no more misunderstandings, no more deceptions. He'd remind himself that she sometimes phrased things backwards and he'd hold himself in check to make sure he understood her correctly.
"I guess this means I don't get to pick up where you left off," said a voice from the doorway.
Shit.
Looking over his shoulder, he turned, keeping Jess close. This was the guy who'd had him escorted off RUSH property and made sure he couldn't return without a guard at his side. But Jeremiah Case hadn't pushed his weight around when he had better things to do than play escort to a guest who'd gone berserk on his watch.
Kyle smiled and held out his hand. "Sorry, but you're going to have to find your own woman. This one's taken."
Case returned both the handshake and the smile. "Congratulations."
"Thanks. I'm going to walk Jessica to her car, then I'll be taking off, myself." He glanced down at her. "Where'd you park, honey?"
She wiped her tears with her fingers. "At Checkpoint 2."
He looked back over at Case. "I'm at Checkpoint 1. Feel like giving us a lift?"
"No problem."
* * *
Michael was in the parking garage, climbing into his Lotus, when his phone rang. He glanced at the screen, lifted a brow, and answered it.
"Yo, Kyle, what's up?"
"I'm calling to ask if you'll fly out to Las Vegas tonight with Jess and me."
A slow, smug grin spread across his mouth as he stared out the windshield. "Tonight, huh?"
"Yeah. If it's not too much for Rachel."
"Tell you what . . . I'm just getting in my car right now. Let me call you back."
"Sounds good."
Michael disconnected. Then he phoned Rachel and ran it by her, and asked if she'd start packing for them both. "Oh, and Rach?"
"Yes?"
"Go look in the top drawer of my desk and read me the phone numbers of some people named Derek and Kathy Lowell, will ya? They're in a spiral pad, two or three pages in."
He waited.
"I've got it," she said a minute later. "Ready?"
"Yeah. Give me all three numbers."
He scribbled them down in still another spiral pad he pulled from the glove compartment. "Got it. Thanks, baby."
He dialed the first number and listened to a phone ring somewhere in the city where he'd spent the first eleven years of his life.
"Hello?" answered a cool, feminine voice.
"Kathy Lowell?"
"Yes?"
"My name is Michael Vassek."
He heard her breath catch on a gasp. Then, voice edged with worry, she asked, "Is Kyle all right?"
"Kyle's fine, Mrs. Lowell." He figured she knew who he was since she'd connected his name with Kyle. "He's better than fine actually. But he's kinda distracted right now, or he'd be the one calling you instead of me."
After a brief pause, she said, "What's going on, Michael?"
"Well," he chose his words carefully, "I don't know if Kyle's mentioned this little sweetheart who's been giving him heart failure about every other day—"
"Are we talking about the financial whiz who can talk circles around a car salesman?"
Michael pictured Kyle's brand new ATV and grinned. "Yep, that's the one."
"Okay." She exhaled. "Let me have it."
So that's just what he did. "I'm calling to invite you to a wedding."
* * *
A thousand miles away from Orlando, Florida, Kathy Lowell replaced the receiver on the landline phone and stared at it. Michael Vassek. After all these years she'd actually heard his voice, spoken to him.
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She lifted her eyes and looked around at the beautiful kitchen Derek had updated for her two years before. New appliances, granite counters, refinished hardwood floor . . . . She and Derek had worked all the years they'd been married. They weren't wealthy, but they were more than comfortable. Even when Kimmie had come to talk with them seventeen years ago about taking in a street kid named Kyle Falkner, some of Kathy's first thoughts had been for the sound system she and Derek had purchased just the week before, the two computers they owned, and other miscellaneous items that would bring a few bucks to a kid who knew how to fence them. And now, after many years of saving and careful investing, they'd be able to retire and live just as comfortably when the time came. But she couldn't imagine what it must be like to live with the kind of money Michael Vassek had at his disposal.
Still in something of a daze, she found Derek in the family room, a small bowl of peanuts in his lap, the single can of beer he allowed himself each evening on the table beside him, and his eyes glued to whichever game he'd tuned into tonight. She smiled, standing on the threshold for just a minute. Derek's fifty-fifth birthday was approaching. His once dark hair was almost completely gray now. And like so many men, the gray somehow managed to give him a look of distinction. She, on the other hand, paid a visit to her hairdresser every six weeks to try for that same look of distinction. Fortunately, the weight she'd gained with menopause had leveled off at twenty pounds, and she knew Derek smiled when she occasionally still turned heads.
"Yes!" Her husband punched the air with a fist, dumping the forgotten bowl of peanuts, then stared at the mess on the floor, startled.
Laughing, Kathy crossed the threshold to help him clean up.
"Is your team winning?" she asked, joining him on her knees.
"Nah. But it was a good play." He reached for the remote and muted the TV. "What's up?"
She hardly knew where to start.
"We just had a phone call." She took a breath. "From Michael Vassek."
The smile fell from Derek's face and his eyes stared hard into hers. "Kyle okay?"
Lord, she loved this man. Smiling her reassurance, she stretched over and gave him a quick kiss. "Kyle's fine." Then her smile widened as she used Michael's very words. "Better than fine, actually."
