Jake crept down the short hall toward the bedroom on stealthy feet. As Nicky he’d only been here once or twice, but these places were all the same. He passed the bathroom, its door open. Reclining against the wall beside the only other door, which was ajar, Jake gripped the Beretta and silently counted to three.
So carefully that he didn’t even disturb the air around him, he raised his free arm and pushed the door wider. And nearly jumped a foot when he heard a gun cock and a familiar voice say, “When I’d heard you escaped, I knew you’d come here, Jake. I’ve been waiting for you. Give me the gun, partner.”
Partner.
Jake curled his lip at the title. When was the last time he’d had a partner, been a partner? It seemed like forever. He watched as Jerry rose and stood by the bed. Jake kept his gaze on his partner’s arm and the steady aim of the Walther PPK with a suppressor pointed at his forehead. Jake maintained his own stance with arm extended and the Beretta unwaveringly fixed on Jerry’s chest. They were at an impasse, but there was no way Jake was coming out the loser.
Hammering back, he said with a calm he was far from feeling, “Long time, no see, Jer. Done anything unusual lately? Like, oh, I dunno. Maybe stab your partner in the back?” Jake narrowed his eyes at the man he’d once claimed to be “closer than a brother” and watched that person squirm. But the moment of discomfort was fleeting.
He squashed his misplaced empathy. “Hand over the gun, Jerry. You always said I was a crazy bastard, and now I have nothing to lose.” Wiggling the fingers on his free hand in a “c’mon” gesture, he watched the various emotions cross Jerry’s face. His friend had always been easy to read. So how the hell had he managed to siphon money from a mobster?
A tense few seconds passed. Just when Jake thought he’d have to make good on his threat, Jerry loosened his hold and let the PPK dangle from his forefinger.
“You win, Jake.”
In that instant, Jake saw his friend the way he used to be, contrite after a disagreement and eager to reestablish their status quo. But this wasn’t some pissant argument over where to go for a drink. This was life or death.
“Of course I do, dickwad. I always do.”
Motioning with the Beretta, he had Jerry precede him to the main room.
“I take it you checked in with the captain,” Jerry said over his shoulder. “I knew you’d be sore, Jake. But I can explain.”
“Explain what, Jer? That you chose to flush our twenty-year friendship down the toilet to join the other side?” Jerry turned when he got to the front room, and Jake glared at his well-dressed friend over the gun. Hardened his tone. “Look at you and me, Jerry, and use your detective skills. Which one of us would you suspect of stealing the evidence?”
“Shut up, Jake. You don’t know anything. I did it for us—”
“Bullshit. Don’t try to rationalize playing Judas. You changed sides for yourself and fingered me because you knew I’d act like a cop and nail your sorry ass.”
“You should have stayed inside, Jake,” his former partner snapped, voice cracking. “Listen to me, damn it.”
Jake met his ex-partner’s pleading expression and had a moment’s doubt. He steeled himself against that weakness.
Moving carefully, he sat down in a ratty recliner while still pointing the Beretta at Jerry, who shuffled back and forth nervously in front of him. He should be nervous. Of the two of them, Jake had always managed to be more conniving.
“I’m all ears.” Jake hid the pain of his friend’s betrayal under a sneer.
“Yes, I was skimming some of Farelli’s take.” At Jake’s disappointed grunt, Jerry waved a hand. Jake subsided, studying his long-time buddy with a painful expression and knots in his stomach. He didn’t think he would like what he was about to hear.
“All that money got to me,” Jerry finally said. “Working with it day in, day out. Seeing what it could buy. I mean, let’s face it, we were never going to get rich on our salaries. Our retirements would be living in shitholes like this one. So, I figured, why not supplement our incomes? Why should all that money go into evidence? Or, worse yet, back onto the streets? Up kids’ noses. Skimming a little could make my life, our lives, so much better. We could buy that restaurant we planned.” He leaned forward to emphasize his words. “No one needed to know how we got the money.”
Jake’s heart sank. His friend, his partner, really believed all the crap he was spewing. Oh, for Christ’s sake…
“But I wasn’t the only one skimming, Jake.”
Jake started.
“You know I was one of the counters. That’s how I was able to lift a little with no one finding out. But then, when we were tasked to recount each evening, Farelli’s final take didn’t add up with what I’d siphoned off. Someone was skimming after me.” His voice had dropped to a whisper, as if just discussing his fraudulence would have Farelli materializing into their midst.
Though it didn’t exonerate Jerry from his treachery, his explanation did coincide with their captain’s comments. That another party was helping himself to the spoils. Jake returned to his friend’s earlier statement. “So how does all this figure in to me being safer inside? Or you letting the captain think I was dirty? That shit doesn’t make any sense.”
“Because I can figure out who’s behind it if I keep doing what I’m doing. I’m in the perfect position to do it as money counter. You weren’t.”
“You made sure of that, dickweed. Don’t try to act like you’re still on the case, Jerry. You just want deeper pockets. And, in the meantime, I remain everyone’s favorite scapegoat—”
“That’s right, Jake. For once in my life I’m going to be the guy to solve the case. All these years you’ve gotten the glory, jumped in front to take the spotlight. You were always being appointed lead detective, leaving me to take orders from you. But not this time, Jake. Not this time. This time I have the chance to be the man of the hour.”
Jake gaped at his partner, couldn’t believe the venom pouring from Jerry’s mouth. Jealousy? Seriously? His friend had sold him out because he wanted to be the hero. And, um, newsflash—embezzling wasn’t going to win Jerry any accolades.
That was when they both heard it. A slight ping. Nothing loud. Not a shatter or anything pronounced, but the pop of glass like the bounce of a marble, followed by the tearing sound of the cheap window shade. Their gazes met. The sudden recognition in Jerry’s mirrored what Jake was feeling, and then a bloom of blood appeared in the center of Jerry’s forehead. His eyes glazed.
Jake watched as his high school buddy and long-time partner, toppled to the floor at Jake’s feet in slow motion, a sniper’s bullet taking his life. Jesus, a fraction of a second and his friend was…gone.
He stared at the tiny, hole in Jerry’s forehead. And then he heard another sound, much closer. A click and whine, like that of a detonator priming. Jerking his head toward the bedroom, Jake jumped to his feet. He lunged for the apartment’s front door as his friend’s home exploded in a firestorm of plaster, wood, metal, and glass.
Chapter Six
“…It’s time to get up.”
“Mmmmm, don’t stop,” Lucy sighed, stretching like a cat in the rumpled bed. Her lover’s skillful hands stroked down her back, cupped her buttocks, and then skimmed on a return journey to her neck and shoulders, erotically kneading cramped muscles along the way. She couldn’t suppress the moans of pleasure the massage elicited.
Her companion chuckled as he leaned over her from behind, lips tickling her earlobe and sending delicious shivers down her spine. He whispered seductively, “I don’t want to, Pretty Kitty. But you have to go to work.”
“Don’ wanna,” she purred, beginning to shift to her back. She hoped his expert fingers and mouth would do their magic on her front, would torture and tease her to that pinnacle that would spiral her into sexual orbit—
Wait. Had he just called her Pretty Kitty? Here, in her bed? Only one person had used that nasty moniker. In growing disbelief she realized that th
e man who straddled her was none other than her kidnapper, Nicky “Jake” Costas. He grinned devilishly, warm hands anchored at her hips, starting to slide past their flare toward no man’s land…
Her abductor was in her bed, sending her to pleasurable heights with just his touch? Those full, curved lips lowered inch by tantalizing inch toward hers, smiling a promise of illicit diversion while still not addressing her by her name—
“Lucy, wake up.”
Lucy’s eyes popped open. She blearily blinked away the image of Costas doing inexplicably delicious things to her body and found herself sprawled across her work desk. Jane stood in the opening of Lucy’s cubicle. Holy moly, that dream had been too realistic…
She didn’t know what was worse—getting caught sleeping on the job, or having said sleep contain erotic images involving a convicted criminal.
She hadn’t slept well the last couple of nights. Restless thoughts kept her wakeful, as did shadows along the walls of her darkened bedroom. And now her kidnapper slipped into her subconscious, throwing her slumber into turmoil? He had no business invading her dreams or workplace in the form of naughty fantasies. God, how messed up was that?
So maybe she needed to heed the police chief’s advice and seek counseling. This whole, um, disorder, where the victim fell in love with her captor—no. Nuh-uh. She most certainly was not in love. Or like. Or even “in lust” with an escaped convict. You hear that, libido? But obviously something wasn’t quite right, because she couldn’t erase Jake from her thoughts. She might banish him with some success during the day, but the moment she closed her eyes, he hijacked her subconscious. Stupid subconscious.
“You okay?” Jane stepped into Lucy’s cubicle, a look of concern on her face. She was under the impression Lucy was recovering from the flu and that was why she hadn’t made it to the weekend getaway. That was the excuse the convict had texted when he’d kidnapped Lucy. Not very original, but it had worked, and Lucy decided to stick with the story.
There was no way she wanted her coworkers knowing about her abduction. They gossiped more than high school students. And if they found out, she’d be forced to talk about the whole ordeal, the media would get wind, and her nice, quiet life would be gone. No, it was better this way. It was bad enough that the police said she would have to testify when Costas was caught. She wanted to enjoy her anonymity while she had it.
So Lucy shoved back her chair, and stood on wobbly legs. “Sorry. I haven’t been sleeping well…”
Jane reached out to pat Lucy’s shoulder. “I know, sweetie. The flu can be really nasty. You should have taken more time off. You get sick leave, you know.”
Lucy met her friend’s eyes, hoping her flushed face would resemble one freshly wakened from sickly slumber and not from the first throes of growing passion. How could she dream of that man? Did it mean she secretly lusted after him? Ewww. Although, if he hadn’t been a kidnapper, a criminal, and an escaped convict. Well, yes, if he’d been just an average guy, even a Jobless Bob—yeah, okay, he would’ve been totally lust-worthy.
She tugged down her black sweater and pressed her hands over imaginary wrinkles in her black skirt. “I’m feeling better, Jane. Really.” Forcing a smile, she changed the subject. “What did you come get me for?” She smoothed back her ponytail and adjusted her eyeglass frames, feigning nonchalance.
“They want the Stinson quarterlies, Luce. In Matheson’s boardroom. Now.”
Shaking off the images of the naked convict (how did she know what he looked like nude, anyway?), Lucy grabbed the required files off the stack on her desk and headed out the door, saying over her shoulder, “Thanks, Jane. Got ’em right here.”
An hour later she had the Stinson taxes flagged as finished and ready to be sent out, with her boss pleased with her itemized work. His comment of, “I knew I could count on you, Parker,” sent shivers down her spine. Was she so reliable that it was her name that came up when it was time to solve clients’ tax dilemmas? She was the go-to girl?
The one who hooked up with the losers of the dating world, who secretly lusted after escaped prisoners, and who accepted praise from balding middle-aged businessmen to satisfy her need for conformity? Just what type of person had she become?
A scared one, Lucy thought as she threw herself into her desk chair.
Since the carjacking, she’d been on edge, jumping at loud noises and obsessively checking and rechecking all her locks. She fell asleep with her bedroom light on, but not until she’d laid awake until the wee hours, reliving the time she’d spent in Jake, no, Nicky Costas’ company. Wondering what she could have done differently.
What she didn’t understand was, if she was so scared of him, why did he show up all naked and tanned (tanned?) in her dreams? Why did the idea of him in her bed send tingles through her body and heat between her thighs? What kind of woman was she, to lust after someone who’d taken her hostage…even if he’d been the handsomest man she’d ever met?
Casting her eyes about the cubicle so she didn’t have to answer that question, her eyes lit upon a post-it note stuck to the frame of her computer monitor. In Jane’s neat handwriting, it proclaimed, “Call your mom.” She groaned. Just what she needed. A conversation with the older, drunker version of herself. She should never have given that woman her work phone number.
She knew when her mother phoned it would be an hour or more of whining on the maternal end of the line. Or, Lucy could suck it up and go on over and visit her pathetic parent. Then she would have fulfilled her daughterly duty for the month. Not that it ever mattered to that woman. She only looked forward to another sleepover with Tennessee’s finest. Lucy grabbed her purse and slammed out of her cubicle. She wouldn’t be returning to work afterwards.
She’d escaped a neglected childhood, dodged another dead end relationship, and survived a kidnapping. Why couldn’t she escape the guilt this upcoming meeting guaranteed?
Forty minutes after her reunion with Mommy Dearest, Lucy parked in her apartment carport. And sat a moment while the engine ticked comfortingly around her.
The visit with her mother had gone pretty much like she’d thought it would: the older woman begged for money while Lucy swallowed the pity she always felt when she saw her mother swaying on her feet, drunk since shortly after noon.
Naturally, she’d given in. Paid the landlord for her mother. She certainly didn’t want the woman forced to live with her—which didn’t sound very daughterly, but her mom could be vicious. As an adult, she chose to avoid the verbal and emotional abuse.
As it was, when she hadn’t given her mom “enough” cash, she’d been forced to weather the shouts and accusations of being a heartless daughter. She still wasn’t immune to the nasty name-calling, though she’d danced this dance all her life. A childish part of her would always love her mother. And it was that love that won out over the “cut your losses” attitude of her grown-up self.
With the reunion over for this month, Lucy heaved a sigh of relief. Getting out of her car, she headed for the apartment that was an oasis in her solitary life. The complex she lived in wasn’t new, but with age came mature vegetation and older neighbors, both facets she liked. Today, especially, she felt the problems of earlier drop away from her shoulders as she moved along the winding sidewalk to her third floor home.
The leaves of the eucalyptus trees surrounding the building rustled in the autumn evening breeze. Weak pathway lighting illuminated her way, but the stairs remained shadowed. The automatic porch light hadn’t come on yet. Lucy continued confidently forward. Her home had always been her sanctuary, private and secluded the way she liked it. Trotting up the stairs to her door, fumbling for the key in her purse, she nearly missed a step when she spied a dark shape huddled in the alcove off her front door.
Fear clawed its way up her throat, an instant spew of panic ready to become a scream. She was catapulted back into that first moment of shock when the runaway prisoner leaped into her car. Clutching the railing, she turned to flee, terror
driving her like a hound nipping at her heels.
“Wait!”
She faltered in her headlong rush, head jerking around as she recognized the voice with just that one plea. And the porch light chose that moment to flicker on, illuminating the speaker and confirming her worst suspicions. It was her kidnapper, Nicky Costas, aka “Jake.” Lucy almost fainted at the realization.
What was he doing here? How had he found her? Scrabbling once more in her purse, she remembered too late that he still had her phone. She couldn’t call 911. As comprehension dawned, she also noticed something about Costas. He looked like he’d been in some kind of explosion. His face had streaks of blood and dirt. His clothes were covered in dust and plaster, as was his now reddish hair.
Lucy cocked her head. Even from this distance she could see the glassy sheen in his eyes. The wide, vacant stare. He was in shock, like a car accident victim. He began to rise, struggled to his feet like he was injured, and right away she swung around to bolt. But not before she saw him sway wildly and begin to topple toward her.
Automatically, she shot out an arm and caught him around the waist before he tumbled past her. She could feel tremors jittering through him, as if he’d been in the snow without a jacket. Then she looked into his face, so close to hers. Big mistake.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispered. “I had nowhere else to go.”
They were near enough she could see the individual scratch marks on his cheeks and across his nose. The blood had dried and the dirt had smeared.
“What happened to you? How did you find me?” She shifted her stance to better support his solid frame. He tried to straighten and relieve her of some of his weight. One of her hands moved to the center of his chest as support, for him or for her she didn’t know. The warmth of his body seeped through the sweatshirt and unfamiliar clothes he wore, but he continued quaking from within.
“I…um…looked at your driver’s license when I borrowed your cash.” He pulled out of her arms, but they still stood close beneath the lamplight. The feeble glare from above glinted off the dull red highlights in his hair, a red she didn’t remember from their earlier acquaintance.
Prisoner of Love Page 6
