by Night Moves
“But what’s going to stop Gisonni from hiring another hit man to go after him?” she asked dubiously. The detective was making it sound too easy.
“Witness Protection,” the detective said simply. “Look, the point is, you took care of Calacci for us.”
She closed her eyes briefly. Calacci, she now knew, was the name of the pirate. She didn’t want to know his name, though. She didn’t want to make him more human when she thought of him.
“Now,” the detective said, “we’re going to take care of Gisonni for you. And for the kid. Cute kid,” he added, a bit gruffly. “I talked to him a little while ago.”
“How is he?” Jordan asked, sitting up straight in her chair.
She hadn’t seen Spencer since last night, when Phoebe’s brother, Curt, had arrived at the hotel. The little boy had been sleeping when Curt carried him off down the hall to his own room.
“The kid’s doing all right,” Detective Rodgers said. “I guess he’s been crying since his uncle told him this morning about his parents, but what do you expect? He’ll get through it. We’ve got a social worker over there at the hotel with them to help smooth things over.”
A social worker.
A stranger.
Spencer knew now about Phoebe and Reno. He was crying.
Jordan’s heart twisted. She was overcome by nausea—and an urgent need to get to Spencer, to bring him comfort somehow.
But Curt is there, Jordan reminded herself. Curt is Spencer’s uncle. He’s with family now, where he belongs.
“Did Spencer tell you anything helpful about the encounter he and his mom had with Calacci?” Jordan asked.
“Everything that kid said was helpful, Ms. Curry. Like I said, cute kid. Damn shame about his parents.”
Tears stung Jordan’s eyes. She merely nodded.
“If it weren’t for you and Beau Somerville, that kid would be dead,” Detective Rodgers said bluntly.
Jordan looked up.
Beau Somerville.
“Have you spoken to Beau?” she asked, trying not to appear too eager for news of him. She hadn’t seen him since they had come back to the mainland, where all three of them had been hospitalized overnight. By the time she and Spencer were reunited and released, Beau was gone.
“We haven’t interviewed him yet, but we expect to at some point today. He’s been up in Richmond, trying to straighten things out with the charter airline and his attorneys. They’ve already filed a lawsuit. So has that farmer whose field he crashed into.”
“The farmer is suing Beau?” she echoed in disbelief. The airline, she could understand, since Beau had filed a bogus flight plan. But the farmer?
The detective nodded in disgust. “Apparently, it caused them mental anguish, having him show up at their house in the middle of the storm.”
“That’s ridiculous!”
“What do you expect? He’s a Somerville. That’s what happens.”
A Somerville?
Jordan frowned. “What do you mean?”
The detective raised a quizzical brow. “How well do you know Somerville, Ms. Curry?”
Well enough to have fallen head over heels for him.
“Fairly well,” she said, feeling her cheeks grow hot at the memory of just how well she had gotten to know Beau during that fiery, passionate interlude at the beach house.
“But you don’t know who he is?”
“What do you mean?” Jordan asked again.
The detective steepled his fingers beneath his chin and looked at her. “Beau Somerville is one of the richest men in the South, Ms. Curry. His family is worth a fortune—and you must be one of the few people who doesn’t know that.”
“I’m not from the South,” she murmured, shaking her head.
She had known Beau was wealthy. But she’d had no idea that his name alone was enough to inspire get-rich-quick schemes in farmers.
Andrea MacDuff had tried to tell her that, she realized. But it hadn’t sunk in, because Jordan simply hadn’t been interested in dating Beau—or anyone else. She hadn’t realized what was missing from her life until after she met him.
And now he was gone.
So was Spencer.
But her life was waiting.
She swallowed hard, trying to muster enthusiasm for going home.
But suddenly, she only wanted to cry.
“Are you all right, Ms. Curry?” the detective asked in the awkward tone of a man who was unaccustomed to drying tears.
“No. But I will be,” she said firmly, as much to him as to herself.
Seated at the wheel of his SUV, Beau watched Jordan come out of the small clapboard police station. She stopped to toss a white Styrofoam cup into a wire trash basket, then walked slowly, head bent, as she headed down the quiet, leafy main street of Dapple Cove.
There were few people about on this gray, muggy morning. The Outer Banks had suffered the brunt of the storm, but the Carolina coastline had been ravaged as well. Everywhere you looked, there was evidence of water damage, and downed branches still littered the streets.
Beau hesitated, watching Jordan walk away. He wondered if he should just let her go. He knew she was flying out of here this afternoon. He could always look her up when he got back to D.C….
For what? To tell her it was nice knowing her and wish her well?
Somehow, that seemed ridiculous.
But what did one say after all they’d been through together? It wasn’t as though he expected their relationship to continue when they got back to the city. She had her life there, and he had his. When they met last week he wasn’t looking for …
For what?
For love?
Of course not.
And he didn’t love her. What had happened between them had transpired because of extraordinary circumstances.
Circumstances that no longer existed.
He should remember why he was here. He should go into that police station and talk to the detective who had summoned him here.
He cast one last look at Jordan.
There was something about her….
He couldn’t let her go.
Not without saying good-bye, at least. And finding out how Spencer was. The little boy hadn’t been far from his thoughts.
He got out of the car abruptly, quickly striding after her.
“Jordan!” he called when he was close enough.
She looked up. He watched an expression of surprise cross her features. Pleasant surprise. She was glad to see him, he realized, hurrying his pace, feeling almost giddy.
When he reached her, it seemed perfectly natural to hug her. He intended it as a friendly hug, but it was more than that from the moment he felt her in his arms and breathed her heavenly, familiar scent.
“Honeysuckle,” he murmured, his heart beating faster.
“What?” She pulled back and looked up at him, puzzled.
“You smell like honeysuckle. I’ve noticed it before. It’s your shampoo.”
“I used the hotel’s sample packet of shampoo,” she said with a faint smile. “It’s not my usual brand.”
“It’s not?” He pondered the fact that she must just smell that incredible naturally. He fought the urge to bury his face in her neck and inhale, reluctantly releasing her from his embrace instead.
“I thought you were in Richmond,” she said.
“I was. Since yesterday morning, trying to take care of a few issues with the charter company.” He didn’t want to get into the lawsuit.
Now that he was here by her side, he realized that it was enough just to be with her. He would worry about everything else later. The detective, the airplane, the farmer—everything.
“Did you get things straightened out?”
“I will.”
“Good.” She looked as though she wanted to say something else, but didn’t.
Realizing how easily she could walk away, Beau was suddenly seized by the need to prolong his time with her.
He looked around fo
r inspiration. “Do you want to get something to eat?” he asked, spotting a diner a few doors down the street.
She hesitated, then nodded. “I guess I just realized I’m hungry.”
“Great. So am I.”
They began walking toward the diner.
“How did you know where to find me, Beau?”
“Lucky guess.”
She didn’t look as though she bought that.
And truth be told, he hadn’t come here looking for her. Finding her had merely been a pleasant surprise. He had left for Richmond without saying good-bye, and thoughts of her had pervaded his time there. Only because he was worried about her, of course. Or so he had repeatedly told himself.
“Actually, I got a message at the hotel from a Detective Rodgers,” he admitted. “He said he would be speaking with you here today, and that he needs to talk to me as well. I had just pulled up in front of the police station when I saw you come out”
“That’s what I figured.” They had reached the diner’s entrance, but she hesitated on the step. “Do you think you should go back there and talk to him now?”
He shook his head. “He can wait. I’d rather talk to you first. I know you have a plane to catch.”
“How about you? When are you going back home?”
“Tomorrow.” He had a meeting this evening with the farmer’s lawyer. He wasn’t looking forward to it any more than he had been looking forward to the ordeal in Richmond, but it had to be done. Now that they had connected him with Somerville Industries, they fully intended to bleed him dry, as did the plane charter company.
Beau’s father’s attorney, Anton Parr, had flown from Baton Rouge to Richmond to represent him yesterday and was due to arrive in North Carolina in time for tonight’s appointment. Parr wanted to fight both cases—especially the farmer’s outrageous demand for excessive damages—but Beau intended to settle.
The sooner he could put all of this behind him and get back to his life, the better.
Even if “all of this” includes Jordan? he asked himself, holding the door open for her as they stepped into the diner.
Yes, he decided firmly. He had no choice but to go back to the real world, and his real world didn’t include either of them.
The diner was exactly what he expected—a rural Southern greasy spoon. A long counter ran along one side of the room, a row of booths lined the other, and a haze of cigarette smoke hung over all of it. Beau felt right at home here: squeaky screen door, buzzing flies, country music on the radio, and all. It was a true taste of his deep Southern roots, carrying him back to a simpler time.
He smiled, remembering how he and Grammy had loved to eat at the local diner back in DeLisle, much to his parents’ frustration. According to his mother, the place was germ-laden; according to his father, Somervilles could afford to frequent finer establishments. All true, but nobody could beat a blue plate heaped with hush puppies and chicken-fried steak.
Beau and Jordan settled into a booth adjacent to one that was occupied by a family of three: mother, father, and toddler boy. He saw the child painting the table with mashed potatoes, watched the mother dunk her paper napkin into a glass of ice water to clean the mess while the father looked around for the waitress and the check.
It was a scene he had lived.
Jeanette, who’d had a lumberjack’s appetite despite her petite build, had loved to eat in places like this. So had Tyler.
Oddly, today, watching the little family in the next booth didn’t spark the usual gut-wrenching pain inside Beau. Today his memory didn’t chill him—it wrapped him in a warm, nostalgic glow merely tinged, but not infused, with the familiar sorrow.
The waitress came over to them. She was a faded blonde with deep wrinkles around her eyes and mouth that betrayed years of sun and smoking. Setting down water and menus, she asked, “You two need a few minutes before you order?”
Beau looked at Jordan.
“I do,” she said.
He knew what he wanted without opening the menu, but he needed a few minutes, too. Anything to prolong this time with her.
He waited to ask Jordan about Spencer until the waitress had gone back to the kitchen. The moment he spoke the child’s name, her eyes clouded over.
“He’s with his uncle,” she said simply.
“Phoebe’s brother? The one he barely knows?” For some reason, that notion disturbed him.
“He barely knows us either, Beau,” she pointed out. “I called Curt from the hospital. He got the first plane that was able to get down here when the weather cleared. He wasn’t even angry that I hadn’t told him Spencer was with me when I called him from Georgetown. He was only grateful his nephew is alive.”
Beau stared at her, his mind swerving back to those tense days before North Carolina. “You called him from Georgetown?”
She gasped and clasped a hand to her mouth. “I forgot… you didn’t know. I knew it was a mistake as soon as I made the call, Beau.”
He contemplated that. “Why was it a mistake? If you didn’t tell him you had Spencer, what did you say?”
“That I was sorry about Phoebe,” she said miserably. “But as soon as I heard Curt’s voice on the other end, I knew I shouldn’t have called. Phoebe had told me not to tell anyone where Spencer was. She must have known that Gisonni would be watching her brother closely, tapping Curt’s phone, even.”
“How do you know that he was?”
“I heard clicking on the line. I was sick about it. If I hadn’t called, they never would have found Spencer with me.”
Beau could see the blatant guilt and regret etched on her face. He knew what she was going through, how she was tormenting herself over one irrevocable misstep—one that might have led to disaster.
But it hadn’t.
Spencer was alive. They were all alive.
Her mistake hadn’t been deadly.
Perhaps the phone call hadn’t even been the trigger that set Gisonni’s hit man on their trail.
“Jordan, did you ever stop to think that maybe the phone call wasn’t how they found us?” he asked gently, understanding and needing to ease her pain.
“What else could it have been?”
He shrugged. “We’ll probably never know. Maybe somebody followed Phoebe to your house that night. Maybe they ransacked the Averills’ house and found your name and number in her address book. Maybe they found out you were Spencer’s godmother. None of it really matters now, does it?”
“I don’t know,” she said softly. “I keep telling myself that I should have been more careful. Calacci saw your car parked in front of my town house. He traced the plates. He talked to your partner….”
“I know.”
When they spoke yesterday, Ed had told Beau about the phone call from a potential “client.”
I tried to tell you someone had called looking for you when I talked to you that last day, Beau, but you hung up too fast.
Of course he had. Because he thought Ed suspected he wasn’t at the beach house alone, and that that was what he was going to say.
In trying to protect Jordan and Spencer’s whereabouts, he had unwittingly helped the cunning killer set the trap. If he had allowed Ed to tell him about the stranger’s inquiry, he would have realized far sooner that Jordan and Spencer were in peril.
“Look, Jordan, we both made mistakes,” he said slowly. “But we both did what we thought was right at the time. Neither of us meant to put Spencer in danger. How could we have known any better? How could we have behaved any differently?”
She looked down at the tabletop. “I just keep thinking that I should have—”
“No,” he said, reaching out to touch her hand. “No should-haves. Should-haves will torture you. Don’t torture yourself, Jordan.”
It was what she had said to him on the deck that night.
Don’t torture yourself, Beau.
By uttering those words, he now realized, she had given him permission to heal after so many years of blaming himself
for something he couldn’t have changed.
She looked up at him. He saw in her eyes that she knew what he was thinking. That she had recognized the words he had repeated back to her.
“You’ll never know how much you helped me that night, Jordan,” he said softy. “I haven’t talked with anybody about the … accident.”
Accident.
That was what it had been. An accident Nobody’s fault.
“You couldn’t carry that burden of guilt around forever, Beau,” Jordan said.
“And you can’t, either,” he said simply.
There was silence for a long moment.
Then Beau asked her the question whose answer he was dreading. “Did Curt tell Spencer about his parents?”
She nodded, her eyes somber. “A social worker was with them to help—” Her voice broke. She reached for a napkin from the metal holder on the table and wiped her teary eyes. “I’m sorry.”
He placed his hand over hers. “It’s okay. I know. This is hard.”
“I want to be with him. I keep wondering if he’s afraid. And if he’s even asked about me.”
“Of course he has, Jordan,” he said with conviction he didn’t feel. He knew as well as she did that Spencer had kept his emotional distance from her from the moment Phoebe left him in Jordan’s care.
“No. You were the one he bonded with,” she said. “But there were a few times, on the last day, when I felt like he might be willing to let me in. Then everything exploded, and now I’ll never know what it would have been like to feel as though he didn’t hate me.”
“He doesn’t hate you,” Beau said. “He was scared and confused, and he took it out on you.”
“But he didn’t take it out on you. You knew how to reach him. You knew exactly what to say and do. Of course, you would have. I mean, you were a …” She trailed off and looked down at the scarred Formica tabletop.
“I was a what?” he asked, wondering if he even wanted to know what she was going to say.
“A dad,” she said softly, looking up at him. “You were a dad.”
He waited for the usual current of grief to sweep him off to that bleak, lonely place. But this time, for some reason, it didn’t come.
