This Just In [Internet Bonds Series Book 6]

by Christy Poff

  Good-bye, Mistress...

  * * * *

  Three hours later, Brett found the small village he sought. He'd crossed the border on a back road, easily getting past the border patrol. He didn't relish the idea of trying to explain why he wanted to cross the border armed to the teeth, though he had legal permits for both guns. His Federal Firearms license had been hard enough to obtain and he did not want to chance having it revoked considering his plans.

  The village seemed quiet though the local cantina showed the opposite. The only place of its kind for miles, everybody congregated there. Brett figured to get some information inside and, with this in mind, he parked the truck in the shadows, backing it up to a tree in order to hide the license plate. He quietly locked it then headed to the front entrance.

  His hat pulled down low to hide his face, he found a corner table and sat down, his back to the wall. He definitely wanted to see who came and went.

  "Señor?” a waitress asked.

  "Tequila, por favor,” he ordered, following the order with another for one of his favorite rice dishes. A few minutes later, she brought him his drink and left the bottle.

  "Gracias,” he said. He ate his meal, keeping to himself, his ears open for any shred of information or news about the good doctor—another old habit which had stuck with him—once a reporter, always a reporter. He didn't have long to wait.

  Fluent in Spanish, he heard two men discussing Doctor Gaithers. One said he would be at the clinic at eight thirty in the morning to see the doctor after he returned from his morning walk. The other asked him what time Gaithers would leave his house, with the first one explaining how the doctor usually left before sunrise to enjoy the beauty of it.

  "It's a nice way to start the day,” the one said.

  "It is,” the first one agreed.

  Brett's heart leaped, beating faster. If things went the way he wanted, he'd be driving home on schedule. But he knew better and decided to err on the side of pessimistic caution. He left after he enjoyed his last drink and drove away—no one noticing the late-model black pickup leaving the parking lot or the village. Thank God for that.

  * * * *

  Guttshaw woke early as usual. Every day he took his early morning constitutional, a habit dating back to his days in college. He found it a good way to begin the day and it helped make some of what he'd done with his life easier to handle.

  He grabbed his water bottle and left following his usual path up into the hills north of the village. He had one spot where he'd sit for hours and think before returning to start his day treating the villagers. Heading out of his driveway, he failed to see the black truck parked in the trees. Not an unusual sight, but he may have been concerned if he'd seen how new it was. No one in the village, including himself, owned anything brand new. Most of them owned vehicles five years or older.

  He walked up a beaten path—one he'd created—and found his favorite spot. He sat down, sipped some water then gazed at the sunrise over the valley—sheer heaven.

  "Watching the sun rise on the last day of your life?"

  "What?” Guttshaw said startled. “Who? You..."

  "That's right,” Brett said, holding his Beretta on his enemy.

  "You won't do it."

  * * * *

  Brett followed Guttshaw to the hilltop overlooking the valley. Normally, it would be the perfect place to gaze at the sunrise but he had other things to deal with. Standing near a tree, he watched his enemy enjoying one pleasure Ainsley couldn't.

  He waited until Guttshaw appeared oblivious to anything happening around him then approached from the side making sure his shadow didn't precede him. While he crept up on his target, Brett quietly attached a silencer to the Beretta. Once he stood where he wanted to be, he drew the gun aiming it where the bullet would do the most damage.

  "Watching the sun rise on the last day of your life?"

  Brett enjoyed watching the man's calm demeanor totally disappear.

  "What? Who? You...” Guttshaw accused, the recognition evident.

  "That's right,” Brett said, shifting his position one step to his right.

  "You won't do it!” Guttshaw taunted.

  "Don't bet on it. Why should you breathe air when Ainsley's mind is gone? Why should you enjoy this when she can't?"

  "You have to do the right thing and take me back for trial so you can clear your damned conscience."

  "My conscience is fine,” Brett assured him, “and regarding a trial—your case is so cold right now, no one will care. New York will be glad to stamp closed on your files knowing what the cost would be to taxpayers while your mob friends pay for delays."

  "You're not a killer."

  "How would you know? You were a doctor before you crossed the lines. Do you think you're the only one it happens to?"

  "I had no choice."

  "Bullshit! You could have turned State's anytime. Instead you took their money and did heinous things to innocent people. You came west and when you thought I was too close, you did the same thing to a woman who trusted you. You took mob money to escape here."

  "You don't understand."

  "And I don't want to,” Brett told him. “I want my wife back but your quest for self-preservation fucked that all up."

  "Your investigation took away my life. I owed you for that."

  "And I owe you."

  "You still won't do it. You don't have the balls to shoot an unarmed man. You're too honest."

  Brett watched Guttshaw's hand disappear. Brett fired one shot. Guttshaw's lifeless body slumped to the side from a carefully placed bullet to the brain. His hand fell to his side, a small handgun dropping to a rock beneath him.

  Brett walked away, leaving Guttshaw to be found later when his loyal patients worried and discovered his disappearance. While he walked, he broke down the Beretta, shoving the weapon and the silencer into his pocket. He made it back to the pickup, slid behind the wheel then started it and quietly drove away.

  Relief did not hit him until he'd driven a good distance from the area around the village. He headed toward Arizona in case someone remembered the strange truck intending to lead anyone pursuing him on a wild goose chase.

  Several hours later, he pulled into Nogales, a city south of the Mexican-United States border. He found a hotel room in order to relax before continuing on. He'd already switched vehicles, the Dodge going to the agency's drop-off point after he rented a Cadillac from a different outfit across the street.

  "Thank you, Mister Reynolds. You can drop it off at one of our locations in the United States, Canada or here in Mexico."

  "Thank you,” he said before quietly leaving while making sure he didn't raise any suspicions.

  Once in his hotel room, he showered then checked his cell phone for any messages. Seeing none, he stretched out and tried to sleep. He realized why he liked the life of a vintner so much—investigative reporting and covert ops proved hard on the body and extremely stressful on the mind—especially one healing. He looked at his leg, thankful he could still walk but it made no difference anymore. Guttshaw had done what he'd set out to do and, even though his sudden demise happened quickly, Brett slowly died—emotionally then physically.

  Sleep overtook him, casting him into a dark world of nightmares. He'd see Ainsley—one moment flogging him before taking him on one hell of an erotic ride, the next, staring at nothing, a distant gaze frozen on her face. He tried to shut this out of his mind but something held him—something new to his dark dreams.

  "Brett, come back to me..."

  Brett bolted up, a cold sweat covering his naked body. His cock throbbed, begging to impale her hot body. What the hell...

  Quickly, he dialed the house but the cell phone would not connect thanks to a poor signal.

  "Damn it!” he cursed. He picked up the phone on the table next to the bed then thought better of it. The call could be traced then he'd have to explain why he was in Nogales, Mexico. It'd hit him the night the papers were discovered after t
he mysterious break-in, their guest could have bugged the house phones. He'd taken Connery outside to talk to him about what had happened, worried about someone learning his plans.

  Replacing the phone, he shook his head. Why didn't I remember this before? Have I gone that soft? He cursed again, pacing back and forth across the small room, unsure what his next move should be.

  He knew something new had happened and it involved Ainsley—he could feel it. If there had been a breakthrough, Connery would have called him. If she'd had a setback, Connery would also have called him. Only one other time had he experienced something like this and that had been in the service. Because of his feelings, he'd gotten his team to safety just before a shell hit the lobby of an abandoned hotel in Afghanistan. While he didn't believe in strange things like this, when he got signals like this one and the other, he paid attention. The one about Ainsley was the second one and it meant something, but what?

  Brett looked at the clock then rubbed his temples. Thank God it's not a headache. He knew he was tired having pushed himself to his personal limit and farther. He needed to rest but not knowing what had happened at home bothered him.

  "Damn it, why didn't I let it go?” he cried out.

  Sitting on the bed, he decided to get some sleep then keep trying to call the house on his cell. Somewhere, he'd have to be able to connect. If only I could instant message her...

  * * * *

  Connery called Brett nonstop for hours, leaving several messages on his employer's cell phone. He worried about Mister Quincannon, especially having an idea what drove him to leave the vineyards and his wife.

  Because of the break-in and somebody leaving something instead of taking anything, Connery had taken it upon himself to have the house, winery and other buildings on the property swept for bugs. Considering the nature of the business, the sweeper he called didn't ask questions. Corporate espionage ran rampant in the wine industry meaning one could never be too careful. His previous employer had the place swept several times over the years, why should the new owner not keep the same practices?

  Things had started happening within hours after Quincannon's departure. While he tried to reach Quincannon with the latest news, Connery waited for the man to call home. So far—nothing.

  "Mister Connery, have you reached him yet?"

  "Not yet. He must be tied up in meetings or negotiations."

  "Oh."

  Connery agreed with her. One little word summed everything up.

  Where the hell are you, sir?

  * * * *

  Following her nightly routine, Ainsley had been helped to her bed, then settled in for the evening after her husband abruptly left on a business trip. Her eyes had been closed for her after drops had been put in by her nurse before she left to do whatever she had to do.

  At the sound of the door closing, Ainsley slowly opened her eyes. She'd done it earlier but hadn't tried since dreading the possibility she wouldn't be able to do it again. She couldn't bear it if it had been a one-time thing.

  Slowly, she tried to move, starting with her hands. She felt her fingers folding then straightening, her hands clenching then relaxing. Fireworks of joy went off in her mind. My God, it's true!

  After cautiously trying to move more, she slowly sat up. Feeling good, she kept pushing herself. She needed to regain her life in order to get her husband to come back to her. She knew she was the reason Brett left and if she could do anything to get him to come home, she'd do it.

  Ainsley turned to the side, delicately placing her feet on the floor. She noticed the air splint on her leg, life hitting her full throttle. If I've been like this long enough for my leg to heal to this point, no wonder Brett left me. I couldn't expect him to wait ... how long?

  She tried to stand, leaning against the bed for support. One thing she loved about it was its height. She hated low-to-the-floor bedframes for several reasons—her present state a new reason for her list. Supporting herself, she took several tentative steps. Reaching the end of the bed, she grasped the post and wept tears of relieved joy.

  Taking a deep breath, she took another step. Letting go of the bedpost, she took another. Ainsley fell, hitting the floor and feeling every bit of it. She cried—partly from the pain and also from feeling the joy of being able to experience it. Ainsley had her life back—at least, most of it.

  "Mrs. Quincannon,” her nurse said. “What are you doing?"

  "I need to..."

  "Miss Ainsley, are you all right?” Connery asked.

  "Mister Connery?"

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "Where's my husband? I need my husband."

  "Let's get you in bed."

  "No, I need to get out of this room. Please..."

  "Of course, Miss Ainsley."

  "You can't,” the nurse protested. “She..."

  "I do what my employer bids,” Connery told her. “Where do you wish to go, Miss Ainsley?"

  "Anywhere but here. I..."

  "I understand. Do you wish to walk or should I carry you?"

  "Let me see how far I get."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  * * * *

  Brett bolted up, unsure of his surroundings. The dream about Ainsley persisted, driving him insane with the need to know what had happened. He checked out of the hotel and slipped into the Cadillac, beginning his long drive home to the Napa Valley. He cursed the circuitous route he had decided on taking but it had become necessary after he removed a pestilence from the world.

  Three hours on the road, he pulled into a rest stop outside of Phoenix. Getting out of the car and stretching, he did what he had to, then called Connery.

  "Sir, I've been trying to reach you."

  "What the hell is going on?"

  "She's walking and talking. Your wife has returned to..."

  "Say that again."

  "Miss Ainsley is back with the living. She's been asking for you."

  "When..."

  "Within hours after you left, sir. We found her on the floor at the foot of her bed."

  "Is she all right?"

  "The doctors are extremely pleased—and amazed. She came back completely in an unexpected manner and definitely not what they expected."

  "But she is all right?"

  "Yes, sir, except her heart is broken."

  "Why?"

  "She feels she drove you away, that it's her fault."

  "My God, what have I done?” Brett rued. “What did you tell her?"

  "You are in negotiations and meetings on vineyard business."

  "Does she believe you?"

  "I'm not sure."

  "I'm on my way home."

  "Where are you?"

  "I'm several hundred miles away. I'll get there as soon as I can but..."

  "I understand, sir. I take it your travel arrangements have to do with the reason you left."

  "You could,” Brett quietly said.

  "I will do what I can on this end, sir."

  "Thank you. I'll call you as soon as I'm in the area. Have one of the staff take my car somewhere where I can pick it up and make it look like..."

  "I will, sir."

  Brett ended the call and got into his rental car to start the next leg of his long drive home. He couldn't believe the news—Ainsley had returned. He rejoiced knowing his wife would be waiting for him but rued the fact she believed his leaving was her fault. How could it be her fault? I love her with everything in me. Hell, I've killed a man for her.

  He sat back for the long drive, concentrating on how he hoped their reunion would go. He wanted to pull her into his arms and never let go of her. He wanted his cock embedded inside her heat and he wanted her domination. Then it hit him—would she want to continue being his Dominant? Had Guttshaw's treatment changed that part of her?

  "Ainsley!"

  Chapter 17

  Ainsley spent her time working out and getting reacquainted with current events. She had recovered fully with the exception of her longing for the man she loved—the man who'd lef
t her and had yet to return.

  She believed he'd run from her, unable to take what had been done to her. She understood, accepting responsibility for driving him away. If only I hadn't dragged him into my problems...

  Ainsley wanted Brett in her life, in her bed and under her dominance. She prayed she could still enjoy bondage but she'd be able to find out one way and with only one person. She needed Brett to restrain her. Ainsley trusted him without question and needed him to help her find her way. It's the only way I can truly heal.

  "Is there anything I can get you, Miss Ainsley?"

  "No thank you, Mister Connery."

  "Please, just Connery. Mister Connery was my dear old father."

  "All right, Connery,” she said. “Can you tell me something?"

  "I'll try."

  "Where is he?"

  "I have no idea. He told me about..."

  "Can it,” she said, interrupting him. “I know you know something. Please, I need to know..."

  "Miss Ainsley, I only know he left following information someone broke into the house to leave for him. What he's done or how he responded to it, I don't know."

  "Don't tell me he went after Doctor Goodman..."

  "I honestly do not know what or who he went after. He told me what I've been telling you, so in all honesty, I have no clue about his whereabouts."

  "Mrs. Quincannon, your medicine..."

  "Thank you, Nina."

  Nina had finally accepted the fact Ainsley had taken control of her life, their relationship less strained and friendlier. As long as Nina didn't get in Ainsley's way, it worked out.

  Ainsley appreciated Connery. He helped her, caring for her and her needs without cross-examining her motives. He understood her and it made it easier when she wanted to walk. Connery gave her support and encouragement. Where would I be right now without him?

  Ainsley worked her body like an out-of-control freight train. While Nina worried and reported everything to Ainsley's doctors, Ainsley pushed herself. Her drive kept her sane because when she stopped, she despaired over her husband's absence. They longer they remained apart, the more convinced she became her marriage had ended. In the back part of her mind, she figured it would only be a matter of time until he served her with divorce papers.