by Maggie Price
That adoption had to go through! Iris had been counting on the money, she’d needed it to prevent the people she owed from making good on their promise to start breaking her bones, one by one.
The small amount of anticoagulant drug Iris had slid into Wyman’s vein shouldn’t have stopped the teenager’s heart, but it did. No big loss, really. Wyman was homeless, she slept at various shelters on occasion, but mostly she lived on the street, turning tricks. Iris had seen plenty of other girls like her and knew Wyman would probably wind up trading the baby for drugs before it was three months old. The kid was now with a family that wanted it, loved it and had tons of money to give it whatever it wanted.
A’lynn Jackson had been a carbon copy of Wyman—a pregnant teen who’d already signed all the adoption papers, then balked about giving up her baby. Filling a syringe with the same anticoagulant and sliding the needle in the girl’s IV had simply been a matter-of-fact decision on Iris’s part. Just a solution to another intractable problem.
“I see no reason for us to change our basic agreement while the operation is running so smoothly,” her partner added.
Iris narrowed her eyes. Things were running smoothly because she was the one who solved their problems. She took the damn risks.
Pointing that out to the bastard was on the tip of her tongue, but she held herself back. In truth, she needed him. Coming across the ripe-for-the-picking Calhouns had been a fluke. She didn’t have the contacts—or the law degree—necessary to work the operation on her own. Without him, there would be no operation.
“I’m not trying to change things, darling,” she said through her teeth. “I’m pointing out the obvious—I’ve done double duty this time for which I should be compensated. Quite simply, I’m due a bonus, which I expect you to pay.”
She thought about the untraceable cash she had stashed in a safe place. She viewed each bill now secreted there, each one she added, as a layer of protection. Insulation. Insurance that she would never have to go back to being the mousy redhead who’d carried around twenty-five pounds of extra weight. The boring woman who’d gotten her kicks gambling at Oklahoma’s Native American–run casinos between working at a hospital and doing night shifts for a Hospice program.
How pitiful she must have been, caring more about the sense of anticipation gambling had instilled in her than even the winning and losing. Whether it had been the next card, the fall of the dice, what horse won or the number the little ball stopped on, it was those few seconds of waiting and hoping and wishing that had made her feel alive. The downside to that was the pit of debt she’d quickly dug for herself. When the opportunity came along that offered her a way out of the quagmire, she’d grabbed it and held on for dear life. Now, except for the occasional out-of-town trips she treated herself to, she no longer gambled. In short, she’d reinvented herself. She had no intention of going back to the hellish, pathetic existence that had once been her life.
As if needing visual confirmation of her transformation, Iris tucked the phone against her cheek and shoulder, then turned toward the mirror over the dresser. Loosening her grip on the sheet, she let it slither down to pool around her ankles. The image reflected back at her assured her there was nothing left of the woman she’d once been. Her body looked long, sleek and expensive, like a new Jaguar. She’d paid experts to teach her all the tricks about hair and makeup, so that even after a night spent in a man’s bed she looked sexy and tousled, not used. Dammit, she was entitled to the new life she’d scraped and clawed out for herself. She’d earned it. And she wanted more. No one was going to get in her way.
“What about my bonus?” she asked into the phone.
“You’ve made your case,” her partner said. “You’ll get it. Let’s move on.”
Feeling a tug of triumph, she allowed herself a light laugh. “You sound like a lawyer, darling.”
“I’m the superhero attorney, remember?”
From behind the bathroom door the rhythm of the shower continued. The salesman switched from rock to an achy-sounding country tune about lost love and strong whiskey. The thought of his hands—those hard masculine hands spreading soap over her flesh—fine-tuned every nerve in Iris’s body.
She kicked the sheet aside. Strolling toward the bathroom, she said, “Actually, I have a date with a real superhero right now.”
“Should I start calling you Wonder Woman?”
“I’ve got to go,” Iris said, ignoring his attempt at humor. “I’ll tell the Calhouns the birth mother has approved them and they’ll have to meet with her attorney. You’ll arrange for a suite for them? Say the day after tomorrow? Schedule an afternoon appointment for them at your office?”
“I’ll take care of things on my end. If that baby arrives on schedule, you and I will have the Calhouns’ payment to stuff in our Christmas stockings.”
“Perfect timing,” Iris said. Feeling the heat of desire rising inside her, she clicked off the phone and tossed it into her purse.
Pushing open the bathroom door, she disappeared into a cloud of steam.
After dinner that evening, Grace headed for one of the blackjack tables in the Gold Palace’s casino. Mark detoured to their suite to check for messages.
Clad in a slithery gown of midnight-blue sequins, Grace perched on a stool vacated seconds earlier by an over-weight, balding man who’d left the table with a scowl on his jowly face. The air in the casino was filled with smoke, murmured conversation and the steady clatter of slot machines. Occasionally silver clattered into one of the slot’s metal bowls. Overhead chandeliers glowed, spilling light onto players, tables and the dark copper art deco carpet.
Aware that she might be under surveillance, Grace opened her sequined evening bag. Using fingers that sported the fake, manicured nails she still wasn’t used to, she pulled out a bill and laid it on the green baize.
“Changing a hundred,” the lanky, bearded dealer said.
Grace gave the other four players a polite smile. The dealer, clad in a modified tux uniform, slipped the bill into a slot on the table, then counted out chips.
Twenty minutes later Grace’s one-hundred-dollar stake was up to three hundred. She felt sure her fellow players mirrored her by sending up continuous silent prayers of hope for the elusive card combination of twenty-one. For some reason, luck had chosen to smile down on her tonight.
Sipping the tonic water a waitress had brought her, Grace peeked at her hole card while the croupier dealt her another. Satisfied with a nineteen, she made a wordless gesture with her hand, indicating she would pass on getting another card. One by one, the other players broke until the dealer was Grace’s sole competition on the current hand. He dealt himself another card, and broke at twenty-three. Grace smiled, happily accepting the chips he deftly slid her way.
“New dealer,” the croupier announced, indicating his shift at that table was finished.
A female dealer with spiky blond hair and electric-blue eyeshadow stepped up to take his place. Giving the players a businesslike nod, she said, “Good evening. New deck.” She broke the seals on decks of cards and began shuffling them together.
Grace used the time to perform a slow survey of her surroundings. Sweeping her gaze over the sea of bodies, she searched for Iris Davenport. Although there were various women wearing sleek dinner dresses and sparkling sequins, none of them had the flame-red hair that made Iris easy to spot.
It had been a day and a half since Mark had phoned Iris to tell her he and Grace would take a chance on another private adoption. That chance, however, was contingent on the transaction being handled by the lawyer Iris had referred to as the “superhero.” Davenport had dropped by their suite a few hours later, saying she had contacted a source she didn’t name in order to put the wheels in motion. Supposedly, the source had told Iris the attorney would need certain background information from the Calhouns. Mark and Grace had supplied her with the fictional history the FBI had created on their undercover personas. Iris had left their suite, promising
she’d be in touch.
Iris had not shown up at the spa that morning for their spin class. Grace knew that while she had been sweating on the exercise bike, Iris had been holed up in a hotel room registered to one Troy Pacer, a pharmaceutical salesman from Orlando.
The surveillance team that tracked Iris last night reported it had seemed the encounter between the two had been unplanned. A sudden meeting of gazes across a roulette table.
Grace shifted her attention to the nearby table where Iris had hooked up with Pacer. A crowd of people hovered nearby while the roulette wheel spun continuously. So far, the FBI had found nothing in the background check they’d run on Pacer that indicated the married father of twins had prior involvement with Iris and/or ties to a black market adoption ring.
Still, the man earned his livelihood traveling around parts of Florida, making calls at various doctor’s offices, clinics and hospitals. Through those contacts Pacer might possibly get access to pregnant women willing to sell their babies to the highest bidder. And perhaps dispirited couples in the midst of seemingly futile fertility testing who would have no qualm forking over thousands of dollars in cash to buy a child.
“Darling, it looks like you got lucky,” Mark said when he strode up beside her stool. Ever the indulgent husband, he placed a hand on her shoulder, his fingers squeezing lightly.
She felt the instant kick of her pulse as she shifted to face him. Tonight he wore a gray silk suit and a midnight blue shirt. A cream-and-blue tie was knotted at his throat. The lighting in the casino made his sinfully handsome face look narrow and raw-boned. The looks he garnered from several nearby women told Grace he was easily the best thing they’d seen all night.
She had to agree.
Since that day they’d exchanged those steamy kisses, both she and Mark had adhered to their agreement to keep things between them strictly business while they were alone together. Doing so, however, wasn’t an option when they were in public parading as a married couple. Nor did it seem to Grace that she had the option to prevent her body from instinctively reacting whenever Santini got near, whether in private or in public. The best she could do was hope the walls of resistance she’d erected around herself held steady until they closed their case and he winged away on his next assignment.
Looking up, she saw the intensity in his eyes and knew something had happened. Although her cop instincts went on alert, she stayed in character.
“Luck?” she repeated, sending him a flirty smile. “I prefer to think that I’ve tripled my money due to skill.”
“You’re too gorgeous to argue with.” Mark leaned in, his mouth grazing her temple. “It appears the Calhouns got lucky, too,” he murmured against her ear. “We had a message from Davenport, asking us to contact her as soon as we got back to the suite.”
Grace felt her heart pick up rhythm. Telling herself it was solely due to Mark’s words and not the closeness of his mouth to her flesh, she said, “And?”
“I called her. All she would tell me was that she has good news about the adoption. She’s on her way down to meet us in the lounge.”
“Bets?” the blond dealer asked.
“I’m done for the evening,” Grace said. She eased off the stool while Mark collected her chips and handed them to her. She dropped them into her evening bag, knowing Grace Calhoun would be too eager to hear news about the adoption to take time to cash the chips in now.
Linking hands as they moved off, Grace gave Mark an expectant smile. “What about Iris’s pill-pushing lover?” She kept her voice low to negate any possibility of being overheard.
“Anything new come in to make us think he’s some sort of baby merchant?”
“Nothing on the surface.” Placing a hand at the small of her back, Mark matched her smile. “Not yet, anyway.” He dipped his head, speaking as softly as a lover whispering endearments. “Agents in our Orlando office are digging into Pacer’s background. The pharmaceutical conference he’s attending here ends tomorrow. The hotel shows he’s due to check out in the morning. He’s booked on an early afternoon flight to Orlando. We’ll have someone on the plane watching him and tailing him after he arrives in Florida.”
In a matter of moments they reached the entrance to the dimly lit lounge where Iris and Grace had relaxed over flutes of champagne two days ago. Iris had already arrived and laid claim to one of the tables near the hearth where a fire blazed. Tonight, a pianist sat at the baby grand on the far side of the lounge, caressing a bluesy tune out of the keys.
“Mark said you were playing blackjack,” Iris said while Grace and Mark settled into heavy leather chairs.
“That’s right,” Grace said.
“So, how’d you do?” Iris asked. She wore a short black silk dress, cut low front and back. Her long red hair was swept off her face with a single comb. Grace was sure the woman had not dolled herself up just to spend the evening alone. Earlier, she’d studied surveillance photos of the pharmaceutical salesman. She took a moment now to check the lounge for the man. As far as Grace could tell, Pacer was nowhere in sight.
“I won,” Grace answered, then flipped her wrist. “Iris, I apologize for being abrupt, but I’m too on edge for chitchat. Mark said you have good news about the adoption for us?”
“I do,” Iris confirmed just as a waiter stepped up to the table.
Mark made quick work of ordering drinks. “I take it the good news comes from the attorney?” he asked. As if offering support, he settled his hand on Grace’s, linking his fingers with hers.
“Not just from the attorney,” Iris answered. “But the birth mother, too.” Her glossed lips curved. “They’ve both gone over the background information you gave me. At this time they agree you’re the ideal parents for this baby.”
“At this time?” Mark asked levelly. The small white lights on the massive Christmas tree in the corner nearest their table turned his chiseled features into a landscape of silver light and shadow.
“Well, you’ll have to meet with the attorney in person, of course,” Iris said. “That’s when all the legal issues will be ironed out. The fees involved discussed. And, I imagine, he would like to get to know you a bit. From the sounds of things, it’s just standard operating procedure.”
The waiter arrived with their order. Grace waited until he left to ask the obvious question. “What about the birth mother? Will we meet her, too?”
“Right now it doesn’t look like it.” Iris reached for her vodka and soda, took a sip. “As I understand it, she’s a student, going to college on a scholarship. She also has to work to make ends meet.” Iris raised a bare shoulder. “Her boyfriend—the baby’s father—was far from pleased with the news she was pregnant. He’s totally out of the picture. There’s just no way she can manage to do right by a child at this stage in her life. She’s afraid if she meets you, a part of her will want to try to maintain some sort of contact. Bottom line is, she thinks a clean break will be best for all involved.”
“How awful for her,” Grace said. “She must feel so torn.”
“True,” Iris agreed. “But she’s very fortunate that a couple like you is willing to give her child a good home. I asked the attorney to make sure she knows that.”
“Speaking of this attorney,” Mark began. “He’s checked us out, but you have yet to give us his name. We learned from our first attempt at a private adoption that they can be…delicate. I want to do some checking on this guy before Grace and I meet with him.”
Grace knew Mark had used the word delicate due to the fact that, technically, private adoptions were legal. If the attorney involved collected only a reasonable fee for services in arranging the adoption and perhaps medical and living expenses for the birth mother, he or she was acting within the law. It was illegal, however, to buy or sell a baby—or any human being, for that matter. Not to mention killing young women in order to obtain their babies to sell to the highest bidder.
“It makes perfect sense you’d want to check out the attorney.” All solicitude,
Iris retrieved a folded piece of paper from her black silk evening bag and handed it to Mark. “Here’s his name and address.”
He unfolded it. “Stuart Harmon, Sr., Esquire. Winding Rock, Oklahoma.”
Mark had read the name and town not just for her benefit, Grace knew. They both wore small transmitters; the FBI agents monitoring their conversation would now shift into high gear to check out the lawyer.
Mark glanced up. “Where exactly is Winding Rock?”
“About an hour’s drive west of Oklahoma City,” Iris answered. “By the name you’d think it was a small, quaint town, but it’s not. It’s more of a luxury community, built by families with old money. By luxury, I mean million-dollar homes, most built on the shores of this gorgeous lake. There’s a resort with a wonderful golf course.” Iris inclined her head toward the paper. “I’ve written the name of the resort at the bottom. Reservations have been made for you and Grace to stay there, beginning the day after tomorrow. You’ll need to book a flight to Oklahoma City, then arrange for a car. I hope I’m giving you enough notice.”
Mark dismissed it with a flick of the hand. “I’ll deal with the arrangements when we get back to our suite.”
“The day after tomorrow?” Grace repeated. She gave Iris a quick, hopeful look. “So soon?”
Iris nodded. “The baby is due within a week. If everything goes well, you’ll be a mother before Christmas Day. I understand the baby is a girl.”
“A girl.” Grace let her hand tremble as she pressed it to her lips. “Oh, Mark, a daughter.” She took a deep breath as she blinked out tears of gratitude. “I don’t want to get my hopes up, but…”
“I know,” he said, his voice a soothing murmur. Lifting her hand, he pressed her fingers to his lips. “I know, darling.”
Iris studied them over the rim of her glass with eyes as sharp as a razor. “I wish I could give you a one-hundred-percent guarantee. From your previous bad experience, you know I can’t. All I can do is tell you that I have a good feeling about this. That everyone will agree on all the terms and things will work out for you this time.”
