The Cradle Will Fall

by Maggie Price

  “The bedroom and bath are fine.” Grace gave the bellman a polite, polished smile. “I had asked for a schedule for the health spa.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Calhoun, it’s on the desk. Once you decide when you want to visit the spa, the concierge will take care of the scheduling.”

  “Thank you,” Grace said. “I think that’s all for now.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Mark breathed in Grace’s soft, subtle scent while they stood side by side, tracking the bellman’s progress across the suite. When the door clicked closed behind the man, Mark sensed her shoulders stiffening, felt the tenseness settle into her fingers, still wrapped in his hand. He knew he should ease his grip, release her. Yet, he held on while memories he’d locked away rushed to the surface. Memories of the feel of her soft hands against his heated flesh. The warmth of her body, the comfort she had offered that no one else had ever given him.

  When she tugged her hand from his, he felt the scrape of the stunning diamond she now wore in the guise of Mrs. Mark Calhoun.

  With his mind snapping back to thoughts of the job, Mark turned to the table where he’d left his briefcase. While he input the combination and unsnapped the locks, he felt the familiar shudder of the fatigue that lately seemed to reach to the marrow of his bones. That sense of weariness reminded him Grace McCall-Fox wasn’t the only thing he had to regret. There were the cases he had failed to solve, the trials lost. The child molesters and killers who had slipped through his fingers, the dream that almost nightly had him seeing again each of those victims, reliving every failure. He carried each regret like a stone around his shoulders. With all that weight, he shouldn’t feel so hollow on the inside, but he did.

  “Mark?”

  He looked up, met Grace’s waiting gaze and saw the puzzlement in her dark eyes. They’d spent the past two days formulating their ops plan for this assignment, and he knew what she was waiting for. Knew, too, she was wondering if there was some reason he’d stood staring like an idiot into his briefcase.

  He bit back a curse, disgusted with himself. This was not the time to try to delve into the dark recesses of his own mind. He and Grace were there to cozy up to Iris Davenport, the nurse suspected of murdering Grayson and Wyman, then kidnapping their newborn infants. This was just another assignment. When it wrapped up, he would move to the next case and lose himself in it. Then the next.

  Refocusing his thoughts, Mark retrieved two small black devices from his briefcase. As planned, Grace switched hers on, angled it to show him its glowing green light, then turned and headed for the bedroom. Striding across the living room, Mark activated his own unit, checked its light, then placed the unit on the console behind the desk. The boxes looked like cell phone chargers. In actuality they detected electronic radio waves emitted by eavesdropping devices. As long as the green light glowed, he and Grace could talk and be reasonably sure they wouldn’t be overheard and recorded. Although on the surface they had no reason to think Iris Davenport would bug their suite, they had no idea who might have aided and abetted her in the murders and kidnappings. Or whether Davenport in fact was the guilty party.

  Mark shook his head. The case was riddled with unknowns and a distinct lack of evidence. But he and Grace had to start somewhere. Their instincts had pointed to the nurse who drew a salary from the state yet had somehow managed to pay off mountainous debts. Added to that were Davenport’s occasional stays at posh hotels that sported casinos. She was getting her money from somewhere, and the background checks conducted on her had found no legitimate source.

  “The bedroom and bath got a green light, too,” Grace said when she returned to the living room, carrying a file folder.

  “So far, so good.” Mark picked up the health spa information off the desk and began flipping through the pink, floral-scented pages. “Looks like this is the same schedule for spa activities the agent from our local office faxed us.”

  Settling into the chair behind the desk, Grace opened the folder then checked her watch. “According to the info your agent sent, Iris has a spin class in about an hour.”

  “Spin.” Mark raised a brow. “What exactly is that? Some sort of dance class?”

  Grace slid him a look from behind her dark lashes. “Not up on spa lingo, are you, Agent Santini?”

  “Guilty, Sergeant McCall. When I find time to work out, I hit a police gym. I don’t hear a lot of spa lingo getting batted around in those places.”

  “In this instance, spin refers to stationary bikes. Guess it’s the concept of spinning your wheels and getting nowhere.” Grace gave him a pained look. “Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve ridden a bike, Santini? I can already feel my lungs heaving and muscles locking up.”

  “All in the line of duty.” Mouth curving, Mark leaned against the edge of the desk and checked his watch. “If you hustle, you can make that spin class. As your very accommodating husband, I’ll be happy to call the concierge and set it up while you change.”

  “Gee, thanks,” she said with a smirk. “When I get back, make sure you have my bath ready. Vanilla-scented candles lining the tub’s rim would be good. And a glass of merlot to help ease my aches and pains should do the trick.”

  “How about I make myself available to wash your back?”

  Mark hadn’t thought before asking the question. Had it been a different woman in any other situation, his offer would most likely have been dealt with by a flippant refusal or welcoming acceptance. But this wasn’t any woman. This was Grace, and he happened to have glided his soapy fingers along the tempting hollow of her spine on numerous occasions.

  He saw by the darkening of her eyes that the question had conjured up the same memories for her. Memories of the times they’d soaked together in an oversize tub while soft music drifted on the air and candlelight flickered in clouds of steam. Of the times their bodies had joined beneath the water’s sensual warmth. Of the times his hands had explored her gentle curves and sleek planes while his mouth suckled her breasts, wet with perfumed water.

  Just as it had so long ago, need pumped like heat into his body. He laid a hand over hers. “Grace.”

  “Don’t, Mark.” She began to pull away, but he tightened his fingers on hers.

  “Don’t what? Don’t remember the life we shared? You want to tell me how to do that?”

  When she said nothing, he studied their joined hands. “There have been times over the past years when I couldn’t do anything but think of you. Of the time we spent together. Of what we had—”

  “It was a long time ago.” She pulled her hand from under his and rose.

  “It was,” he agreed. “But right this minute it seems like it all happened yesterday.” His gaze conducted a slow, measured journey of her. “Maybe because you look the same.”

  “I’m not the same.” She faced him across the span of the desk. Her cheeks were flushed, her mouth set. “We agreed to keep this business. All business. To concentrate on finding out what happened to those two mothers and their babies. We have to find those babies.”

  “We will,” he said quietly. “And I remember our agreement. Problem is, it doesn’t wipe away the past. Not for me, anyway.” He dipped his head. “That flush in your cheeks tells me it isn’t working for you, either.”

  “I haven’t forgotten.” She wrapped her arms around her waist. “The good times, or the bad. The worst being when we went our separate ways. We’ll do that again, just as soon as we solve this case. I’ve had to say goodbye to too many people I’ve cared about. You. Ryan.” She closed her eyes, opened them. “I’m not the same person, Mark. I know now that I’m not good at saying goodbye. So I choose not to get involved with a man when I know up front that’s what I’ll have to do.”

  “Saying goodbye is one of the things I excel at.”

  “It seems you’re the one who hasn’t changed.”

  “True.”

  “If you can’t work with me on a nonpersonal level, then you’d best find another partner. It’s not too l
ate, since we have yet to make contact with Iris Davenport.”

  “I have the partner I want,” he said levelly. “We’re both professionals, Grace. The job comes first.”

  “Always has,” she murmured while rechecking her watch. “So, I suggest we get started. I’ll go change while you call the concierge.”

  “You got it,” Mark said and reached for the phone.

  Instead of picking up the receiver, he watched her walk away, her movements as graceful as a dancer. With each step she took, the hollowness inside him deepened. He had spent years on his own, needing no one. But always, always he had thought of her, and those thoughts had given him a sense of comfort.

  It wasn’t comfort he felt now as he watched her walk away, but a pulsing sense of loss.

  Nearly an hour later Grace shut the door on the pristine locker the spa attendant had assigned her, thinking how idiotic her advice to Mark had been.

  Don’t remember.

  How could she expect him to forget their past when she had tossed a part of it in his face?

  Looping a snowy-white hand towel around her neck, she decided she must have lost her mind to suggest he have a steamy bath waiting for her when she returned to their suite. Surely her subconscious had been inspired by her seeing the elegant bathroom with its huge tub, fashioned for lounging. Soaking in hot, steamy water had always been her favorite way to relax, a routine she’d turned Mark on to during the months they’d been lovers.

  Turned him on in more ways than one, she thought wryly while easing out a slow breath.

  His offer to wash her back had, in the blink of an eye, tumbled her into the past. She had no problem picturing Mark with the heated water lapping at his broad chest. Hadn’t forgotten the sight of his muscled shoulders and, visible through the clear water, his narrow hips and sinewy thighs. Remembered well the glint of passion that had shone in his dark eyes while his hands moved in slow circles under the water to caress her breasts…then the rest of her.

  Grace buried her face in one end of the hand towel. Only to herself would she admit that spending the last three days with Mark had been agony. Not because she hadn’t wanted to be with him. Because she had.

  She was only human, after all. She had physical needs, needs that had long been neglected. Needs that she knew this one particular man could satisfy quite exquisitely. Needs that seemed to double and triple when she was in the same room with him. But she couldn’t allow herself to take that step. Not when it was just a matter of time before Special Agent Santini walked out of her life again.

  When she looked at the whole picture, she saw full well that Mark was not the right man for her. He hadn’t been six years ago, and he wasn’t now. They had far different lives, incompatible priorities. Nothing had changed.

  “Mrs. Calhoun, are you okay?”

  The attendant’s voice snapped Grace back to the present, reminding her of the reason she was standing in the health club’s locker room, clad in turquoise spandex. She had already begun her role as the wife of a rich man, capable of buying her anything her heart desired. Including a baby.

  She waited a beat, then let the towel drop from her eyes. Around her, the white, spotless tile gleamed and walls of mirrors sparkled. She could hear the sound of showers running somewhere out of sight behind her. Women in various states of undress milled in the background.

  “Yes, thank you. I’m fine.” Grace gave the blond attendant wearing the spa’s distinctive skintight gold unitard a repentant smile. The woman was so young and vibrant that Grace pictured her prancing through a grueling aerobics routine without a drop of sweat marring her perfect skin.

  “I’m just not looking forward to all the exercise I’ve booked for myself.” Grace didn’t add that she’d stocked up on ibuprofen after seeing Iris Davenport’s aggressive workout schedule.

  “We’ll take good care of you, Mrs. Calhoun,” the attendant assured Grace while ushering her out the locker room door. “We’ve got you booked for a massage at the end of each day’s session. Trust me, you’ll be totally relaxed when you leave here.”

  Totally dead, you mean, Grace thought.

  “Let’s get you to the spin class.”

  “Can’t wait,” Grace commented as her escort led her through a maze of high-tech weight machines, glitzy personal trainers and clients clad in varying shapes, sizes and colors of spandex. Befitting the Gold Palace’s ambiance, the floors were Italian marble, and the walls were lined with mirrors that glittered like icy diamonds. Painted art-deco figures gazed down from the high ceiling.

  Having spent time studying the picture in Iris Davenport’s employee file from the clinic and her driver’s license, Grace spotted her prey instantly. Even if the nurse hadn’t resembled her photos, there was no way to overlook the pleasant fine-boned face framed by tumbling red hair. Iris stood beside one of the spin bikes, wearing snug black exercise shorts, a yellow tank top and workout shoes that had an expensive look about them.

  The bikes were set in a half-moon around the instructor’s; when her attendant headed for a bike in the front row, Grace stopped her. “I’ll take one in the back,” she said, moving casually to the bike beside Iris. “That way if I fall off, the entire class won’t see me.”

  The attendant smiled. “You’ll do fine, Mrs. Calhoun. I’m Keely, just ask for me if you need anything.”

  “Like a wheelchair?” Grace ventured, making sure her voice was loud enough to carry to the woman now perched on the bike beside hers.

  As Grace had hoped, Iris chuckled while tucking a hand towel over the handlebar. “Don’t worry. I’m a nurse, so if you fall off your bike I’ll tend to you.”

  “Thanks.” Grace sent Iris a sardonic smile. “I’ll hold you to that.”

  “These classes are killer, so I know what you mean about the wheelchair,” Iris said, then tilted her head. “I don’t remember seeing you in the spa before. Is this your first time here?”

  “My husband and I just checked in,” Grace said as she slid onto her bike. She and Mark had spent hours practicing their cover story, and now the words came easily. “I’m Grace Calhoun.”

  “Iris Davenport.”

  “My husband and I are here on a sort of second honeymoon,” Grace continued. “Mark’s on the golf course already. Since I don’t play, I decided I’d better spend time here every day to balance out all the desserts I plan to splurge on during this trip.”

  “I’m doing the same.”

  “You’re on your second honeymoon?” Grace kept her expression warm and friendly while she asked the question. So far they’d been unable to link Iris with a man. Any man.

  “No, I’m not married.” Iris raised a shoulder. “Haven’t found the right guy yet. I’m here to splurge on myself.” With what appeared to be a genuine smile, Iris skimmed a glance over Grace. “Doesn’t look like you need to worry about those desserts. You’ve got a great figure.”

  “So do you,” Grace said. It was true—Iris was tall and slim, with curves in all the right places.

  “Thanks.” Iris leaned in. “I used to be twenty-five pounds heavier, but I’ve taken it off in the past year. No way am I going to put it back on.”

  The past year. Grace focused on those words just as their sylph-like instructor with glossy black hair held back by a headband perched on a bike and keyed her mike that transmitted to the twenty riders who now surrounded her. As instructed, Grace started a slow pedal while surveiling the woman beside her out of the corner of her eye.

  Nearly a year ago, DeeDee Wyman had given birth to a son, then died. The infant boy had disappeared. According to the credit report on Iris Davenport, it hadn’t been long after that she’d begun paying off the staggering gambling debts she’d owed.

  Silently Grace acknowledged she and Mark had no proof Iris had found other avenues where her nursing skills might bring in larger profits. Even so, every cop instinct Grace had developed after years on the job told her Davenport was guilty of snatching newborns for sale later on the black ma
rket.

  Grace had done her research—she knew that couples desperate to have a child were often told by adoption agencies the average wait was more than five years. Even then there were no guarantees a child would be found for them. No promises that the child would be healthy and of the same race as the adoptive parents. It was no mystery why couples with adequate funds—sometimes in the range of five figures—often chose to enter into what was usually referred to as a private adoption.

  While their instructor gave orders to pedal faster, and rivulets of perspiration trickled between Grace’s breasts, she gave Iris another long look. For someone drowning in debt, selling an infant born to a homeless teenager for a cool five-figure sum must have been a very tempting solution.

  Even if murder was involved.

  Grace agreed with Mark’s theory—the operation was too complicated for Iris to run things alone. Working at a state-run clinic didn’t put her in contact with couples who had the money to purchase an infant. So far the FBI had been unable to tie Iris to anyone who looked like good accomplice material. Grace’s cozying up to Iris was intended to not only get the goods on the nurse, but also unearth her accomplice.

  Lungs heaving, Grace gave her moist forehead a quick swipe with her towel. “Want to help me dropkick our instructor’s cute little butt?” Grace asked, gritting her teeth against the burn in her thighs.

  “Can’t.” Iris panted out a breath. “I have to conserve my energy. I’ve got weight training after this.”

  “Really?” Grace asked, giving her a surprised look. “So do I.”

  At Iris’s suggestion, they suffered through grueling dumbbell lunges and biceps curls together. Their spa session ended with a massage.

  “So, I’ve told you what I do for a living,” Iris said. She lay facedown on a padded table, naked except for the towel draped across her bottom. “How about you? What do you do?”