by Diana Palmer
The door opened and Cash came in, staring with narrow eyes at Tippy's guest.
"Hello, Grier," Carrera said pleasantly. "There's a guy in the local lockup who
swears you shot him."
"Me?" Cash replied innocently. "I would never shoot another person. Honest."
Carrera burst out laughing and held out a big hand. "What are you doing here?" Cash
asked, shaking his hand. "And is that Mr. Smith outside the door?" "Yep," he
replied. "He worked for Kip Tennison, but when
she married Cy Harden, she didn't really need him anymore. He's been with me
ever since." "He's a character. Does he still have the iguana?"
Carrera grinned. "He does. It's five feet long now. He keeps it in his room at the
resort on Paradise Island. If we ever have problems with unruly customers, I send him
down with the lizard. It's usually enough."
"I'm not surprised. Why are you here?"
Carrera sobered. "One of my guys was in on this kidnapping plot. I didn't know it,"
he added quickly when Cash's eyes started flashing. "I only found out this
morning."
"Do you know where to find the guy?"
"No, I don't," Carrera replied. "But I went to the assistant district attorney on this case
and gave him everything I had on the SOB."
Cash did a double take. "Excuse me?"
Carrera glared at him. "Why are you shocked? I am not a gangster! I own casinos
and hotels, now. That's all!"
Cash cleared his throat. "Right."
"Just because I did a few little bad things once..." Carrera began.
"Some gamblers from South Dakota were found in, shall we say, unspeakable conditions in a backwater of New Jersey—"
"If Tate Winthrop told you I was responsible for that," Carrera interrupted.
"Actually, it was his boss, Pierce Hutton."
"He lives in Paris! What does he know?" the older man muttered.
"Then there was the Walters man who embezzled funds from the elderly mother of one of your staff who mysteriously wound up in an oil barrel floating down the Hudson River..."
"Listen, I don't own an oil barrel," Carrera interrupted again, "and for the last time, I am a law-abiding citizen these days." "Have it your way," Cash said. "What do you know about the guy who helped Stanton nab Tippy's little brother?" he persisted. "Not enough to track him down," the other man replied darkly. "If I did..."
"You're a law-abiding citizen," Cash reminded him. "Well, yeah." Carrera pursed his lips. "But I know lots of guys who aren't, who owe me favors." "You wouldn't believe what sort of favors he usually asks for," Cash told Tippy with a twinkle in his dark eyes.
Tippy gave the older man a piercing stare.
"Not those sort," Carrera growled. He shrugged his broad shoulders. "I like exotic
fabric. Actually, I like antique cloth better."
Tippy was staring at him as if she wasn't sure she was hearing correctly.
"I quilt," Carrera said belligerently. "In fact, I win competitions. Some of my stuff is in
an art gallery in the village right now."
"He's not kidding," Cash told her. "He's internationally famous for his designs."
Cash grinned. "Didn't they find a body in one, once...?"
"Not in one of mine," the older man shot right back. "I wouldn't waste one of my
babies on any hoodlum."
Cash laughed. So did Tippy.
"I won't stay," Carrera said. "I just wanted to see how bad they hurt her. You'll be
okay," he assured Tippy, motioning to his cheek, where two jagged white lines were
visible against his olive complexion. "These went all the way to the bone, so they left
scars. Yours won't."
"Thanks," she said.
He shrugged. "I won't stop hunting the guy. To answer your earlier question, his name is Barkley. Ted Barkley. He's a mechanic. A real mechanic," he emphasized. "He can fix anything, which is why I kept him around. He's got family somewhere in south Texas, so if you take her back home with you, keep an eye peeled."
"I'd like to know about the family," Cash said.
"Thought you would." Carrera pulled a folded piece of paper out of his inside jacket pocket and handed it to Cash. "That's the same info I gave the assistant DA. The guy's also handy with a gun, so watch your back. He'll do anything for money, and I mean anything. Stanton may not have much, but that son of Montes is heavily into money laundering, and he'll have people he can borrow it from. He won't want you to testify at that trial. If he can have you killed, he will."
Tippy caught her breath audibly.
"He'll have to go through me to do it," Cash assured her. "Stop worrying."
Carrera gave him a measuring glance. "If you need help, you can call me."
"I don't have any exotic fabric on me."
Carrera grinned and clapped Cash on the shoulder. 'That's okay. You can owe me."
'Thanks," Tippy said.
He winked at her and left the room.
"Is he really reformed?" she asked Cash when he left.
"He really is. I know something about him that I can't tell you, but I can guarantee that he's on the right side of the law." He looked at her poor bruised, cut face with sad eyes. "Nobody's going to hurt you again, ever. I swear it." She took that at face value. He was ridden with guilt and he felt sorry for her. It wouldn't last. She knew it, even if he didn't. She just smiled and said nothing.
CHAPTER TEN
TIPPY'S LUNG WAS CAREFULLY monitored until the doctors were certain that she was on the mend. She continued on the antibiotics and avoided looking at herself in the mirror. She looked like a second-rate horror show, she mused, and she was glad that she didn't have to appear in public for the time being.
She did worry about that third kidnapper who was still on the loose, and the danger of having a contract put out on her by Stanton or his cousin. "Do you think Mr. Carrera was right?" she asked Cash one evening at the hospital. "About that cousin of Stanton's trying to have me killed?" Cash was reticent. He had been for two days, ever since Car-rera's visit. "Anything
is possible," he said. "But you'll be in Jacobsville."
"I've heard it said that a hit man can strike anywhere."
He cocked both eyebrows. "Jacobsville has barely two thousand people. The vice president came through it last year. He stayed for a few nights to visit one of me Hart brothers—they're his cousins. The secret service tagged along and tried to blend in."
She listened, curious.
He laughed softly. 'They're great guys. I've known several of them, and they really care about how they do the job. But they thought the way to fit in was to look like cowboys." He shook his head. "Here were these guys in department-store cowboy hats, wearing brand-new denim jeans and brand-new boots and spotless Western-cut shirts. One of the Hart's cowboys walked up to one and asked if he'd like to come out on the ranch and help cut some cattle. The fed said he didn't know how to butcher beef."
Even Tippy understood that the reference was to removing specific cattle from a herd, not actually cutting them up. She laughed softly.
"So they got back into their suits and went on with the job." He shook his head. "The point is, you can't walk into a small town, where generations of people have grown up together, and not be recognized as an outsider. In a city of a half million, maybe you could. But in a town the size of Jacobsville, you're noticed."
"That's a little more reassuring," she agreed. "I'm not going to let you get hurt again," he reminded her firmly. "That's a promise, and I don't give my word lightly." She shifted and winced. Her ribs were still uncomfortable, but at least the headache was gone.
"Do you have a television?" she asked.
"Yes. A television, a radio, a CD-player and two bookcases full of mystery and detective novels, along with a healthy ancient history section and even some science fiction novels. If all that
fails," he added with a grin, "I've got some great videos. All the Star Treks, all the Star Wars, as well as most of the Lord of the Rings trilogy and the Harry Potter movies." "Those are Rory's favorites," she exclaimed. "What do you like?" She thought about that. "Sherlock Holmes, old Bette Davis movies, anything with John Wayne, and those fantasy and science fiction movies you collect." "I like Bette Davis movies myself," he confessed. He moved closer to the bed and looked down at her face clinically. "The cuts are looking better already. The bruises aren't," he added with a sigh. 'They've gone purple and yellow. You look like you've been in one hell of a fight." "You ought to be on the inside of these bruises," she murmured facetiously. "I never got hit that hard, even on the streets when I was twelve." He scowled. "You were beaten?" She averted her eyes. "I had a couple of close calls before Cullen picked me up," she said. "And that's all I'm saying about it," she added belligerently. He put his hands deep in his pockets, still scowling. "You don't trust me even now, do you?" "I trust you to be human," she replied. "Most people are sympathetic when someone gets hurt. That doesn't mean much after they heal." He hadn't realized she was so cynical. So was he, but he didn't think about it much. He considered Carrera's warning and had some minor misgivings about his ability to
protect Tippy. He couldn't be at home all the time, and there was always the slight possibility that a hit man could sneak in at night without being seen locally. He knew how possible that was, from his own agonizing past
experience. "You look tormented," Tippy remarked quietly. He blinked and his face closed up. "You're the patient here, not me." She cocked her head and studied him quietly. "You don't share anything, either, do you? Your past is a closed book. You live with your nightmares, all alone in the dark." His eyes glittered. "I don't trust anyone close enough to share them. Including you," he lashed out involuntarily. "Especially me," she agreed. "I see too much, don't I? That's what really set you off, the night before you left New York." He turned away from her and stared out the window. It was raining again, typically April weather in New York. He didn't like having Tippy look inside his mind. It was disquieting, because it denoted an intimacy that was already establishing itself between them.
"Okay, I'll stop visiting your brain when you aren't looking," she murmured dryly.
"I'm a private person," he said without looking at her.
"I knew that the first time I saw you. But it didn't apply to everyone. I remember
the day you were talking to Christabel at her ranch," she recalled, and her voice changed. "Your voice was so tender—it was almost like you were talking to a small child. You offered to take her to town for a hamburger. You'd let her ride in your car and turn on the siren, you said."
He turned, shocked that she remembered that.
She avoided his searching gaze. His attitude toward Christabel had hurt her. She'd never understood why, until recently. She'd been jealous. It was stupid, because this was a man who didn't belong to people. He was always the outsider, the loner.
He kept everyone at arm's length. But he indulged Christabel always. It didn't take a mind reader to know that he'd have sacrificed anything for her, including his own life.
"She put up with a lot from me," Tippy was saying out loud, without realizing it. "I was totally unfair to her. I never felt it more keenly than when she was shot. I'd told her some hurtful thing about Judd, and if she died, I'd have had that memory to live with."
He moved back to the bed, frowning. "I didn't know that."
She toyed with the sheet over the faded floral fabric of her cotton gown. "Joel's assistant director was overbearing and he reminded me of Sam Stanton. I was afraid of him. Judd was my protection, my guardian angel. I was afraid if he got seriously involved with Christabel, I'd be on my own." She looked up at him ruefully. "I was, too. Except for you." Her eyes were dazed. "I couldn't believe it when you grabbed his hand and made him stop harassing me."
"I don't like bullies," he said simply.
"Yes, but I was the enemy," she reminded him.
"Not after Christabel got shot, you weren't," he told her. "You knew exactly what to do for a gunshot wound. I didn't realize that at the time." His eyes narrowed. "How?" She smiled wanly. "A lifetime of watching medical shows on television." She yawned. "I'm very tired. I think I could sleep a little."
He watched her impossibly long eyelashes close and stood staring down at her with his heart in his eyes. She was the most surprising person he'd ever known. He was glad he'd havetimetotry andmakeupforhismistakeswhentheygotbacktoJacobsville.
He'd phoned his office already, to give Judd a progress report on Tippy and give the other man an idea of when he was coming home. It wouldn't be long, he thought, the way Tippy was progressing. Not long at all.
AND IT WASN'T. Within three days, she was out of the hospital and Cash was packing things for her. She noticed that he was uncomfortable in her bedroom, where they'd shared that one long night of pleasure. She didn't mention it, and neither did he.
When her clothes were packed, he cleaned out the refrigerator and carried the
contents to Rory's friend Don and his family down the hall. Then he turned off
everything at the switch and made time to talk to the landlord, to make sure Tippy
would still have her apartment when she came back.
Tippy realized that Cash wasn't inviting her into his house for life. Just the same, it
stung to have him so concerned about making sure her apartment lease didn't lapse in
her absence.
He was going day by day, not looking ahead. He tackled the details as he did every
move he made, with precision and skill and economy of motion. Tippy watched him
covertly, her eyes hungry on the powerful lines of his body, on his handsome face as
he opened drawers and folded blouses. "You're very good at packing," she
remarked. He glanced at her and grinned. "I've lived out of a suitcase most of my
life, first in military school, then in the military itself. I'm efficient."
"I noticed." She looked around her with a sigh. "I'm going to miss my own space,"
she confessed. "This is the first apartment of my very own that I've ever had. Before, I
lived with Cullen in his penthouse and afterward, I shared one with another model.
But this is my own." He smiled. "You'll like my house. They say it's enchanted."
Her eyebrows arched. "Really?"
"The story was that a man built it for his wife, who had Scotch-Irish ancestry. Her people
came from the Isle of Skye." He folded another blouse and put it in the suitcase. "Local
legend has it that you never wanted to make that lady angry, because bad things
happened. She wasn't a mean person, she just had this unwanted 'gift' of the 'evil eye.'
They said she also had the 'second sight.'"
"Like me," she murmured. "But I can't put the evil eye on people. I'm sure of that, because if I could, Sam would be under the dirt instead of above it."
He chuckled. "You'd never be able to live with a death on your conscience."
There was a pregnant silence behind him. He turned, curious, but she was busily pulling books out of her bookcase, not even looking his way. Her heart was beating her to death. She was glad that he couldn't see it. There were still things in her past that she didn't want him to know. Not yet, anyway.
"What are those about?" he asked when he noticed two books in her hands.
"One is Pliny the Elder," she replied, and laughed. "He wrote about nature, you know. I find his work fascinating. He was killed when Mount Vesuvius erupted in 79 A.D., trying to rescue people on a boat. The second book is by his nephew, Pliny the Younger, who wrote the only description extant of the eruption itself. It makes fascinating reading."
"I haven't read the Plinys."
"You can borrow mine while I'm in residence," she said with magnificent hauteur. "I feel an obligation to educate th
e ignorant during my convalescence." She put her forearm across her brow with theatric emphasis. "Noblesse oblige."
He burst out laughing.
She peered at him from under her long lashes. The sound fas-cinated her. She had a feeling that it was something he did infrequently. He'd been happy enough with Rory and Tippy at Christmas, but even then, there had been a reticence about him that was palpable. But right now he was happy.
He became aware of her rapt stare and turned toward her with a curious expression. She smiled. "I like hearing you laugh," she said simply. As if the remark made him self-conscious, he turned back to his task.
