by EC Sheedy
Yet that last reach had brought him Henry Castor.
In Q’s first life, Castor would have been dead within five minutes of their meeting—perhaps during it. Things were so much simpler then, kill or be killed. Take or be taken from. Now there were complications.
Castor was a thug, a man driven by violence and avarice, and Q had played into both with the offer of a four million dollar payday. Right now the rabid beast was in Las Vegas. According to Quinlan’s source—ironically a connection he’d made through Victor—Castor had gone there directly from their meeting. The town—loud, crass, and gaudy—did not run to Q’s taste, nor as far as he knew, did Victor have any business there.
All of it together made him uneasy.
There was far too much of the street in Henry Castor: The poor diction, the drugstore cologne, the furtive eyes—windows to an even more furtive spirit. The man appeared to lack basic intelligence. Worse yet, he was unpredictable—as was the teeming, tourist-infested town he’d gone to.
That such a man was in a position of power—albeit temporarily—over Quinlan enraged him, a rage he stifled, considering unbridled anger a weakness as dangerous as Castor himself.
He’d known his share of Castors and their type. As a young man, during his years in Seattle, he’d been one of them—but shrewder, more ambitious—until he’d risen above them all, and got what he wanted—enough cash to begin a life within the law. Almost.
What he and Victor had done in those heady, dangerous days, they’d done together. Drugs mainly, some smuggling, contract killings—whatever was necessary. All of it lucrative and planned to the last detail.
Q’s finale was to be the girl. The little girl in the torn jeans and too-big green shirt.
Now Castor—and that girl—threatened everything: The Braid name, its hard-won legitimacy, and its moneyed connections.
A possible prison sentence.
Idly, he rubbed the teardrop shaped birthmark under his chin. A conviction would, of course, prove difficult, given the elapsed time, a child’s memory as testimony—his money. But he would not risk the possibility nor the notoriety that would inevitably follow such an accusation.
Of course, Quinlan Braid could disappear. Some cash transfers, a flight plan, a new identity. . . Although complicated it could be arranged, but it would mean leaving Giselle. He was reluctant to do that.
Nor, given the nature of Henry Castor, would Q’s leaving be a guarantee of safety. The man was a mongrel, a back-alley cross between a bloodhound and a bulldog—as his investigation of him had confirmed. There was only one way to deal with the cur—put him down, and Q had the right people in place to do exactly that. How ironic that it was Victor who’d supplied them.
Yes . . . when Q had what he wanted—the name of Castor’s pipeline—Castor was a dead man. As was the girl.
Murder wasn’t new to Quinlan. His personal tally was eight in all: Six men and two women. He remembered the godlike challenge of it: The intense planning, the anticipation, the flawless execution, the feel of hard cash slapped in his hands, the extreme level of excitement. The blood.
Even now his heart beat stronger at the thought.
The nostalgia for those long-ago days surprised him. Perhaps because I excelled at it—or because I felt more alive on the streets than I ever have in a boardroom.
Unsettled, he terminated his odd thoughts and reminded himself that murder was messy business, and the risks were high. Risks he could no longer afford. No, this time he’d be the one paying the killer while his own hands remained clean. He would witness the girl’s death, ensure there were no loose ends, but that would be the extent of his personal involvement.
He heard laughter and brighter, louder music coming from the pool area. He could delay no longer, and there was no need to; his decision was made.
As Q reentered his bedroom, there was a double rap on the door.
“Come in, Jerald.”
Jerald entered the room soundlessly on the soft-soled shoes Q required all his household staff to wear. “Your shoes, sir.”
“Thank you.” Q took the shoes, new John Lobbs purchased on a recent trip to London, and turned them in his hand, admiring the gleam of fine leather before sitting on the bench at the foot of his bed and slipping them on. “Has everyone arrived?”
“Yes, sir. All one hundred and fifty-six.” He paused. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“Yes. Tell the orchestra to finish forty minutes earlier. I’ve decided on an earlier end to the evening.” If he couldn’t eliminate his boredom, he could at least lessen it.
Q noticed a trace of surprise cross Jerald’s face, and he understood it. Jerald, through their long association, was aware of Q’s assiduous adherence to schedule. How rare it was for him to initiate a last-minute change. To his credit, Jerald adjusted quickly. “I’ll see to it.”
Q watched him go, briefly grateful for Jerald’s unshakable loyalty. So much better than a dog. So much more advantageous. And all because one of the women on Q’s kill list was of Jerald’s choosing—the mother who’d abused him from birth. Jerald had been thirteen when he’d arrived on Q’s doorstep. He’d offered eighty-six dollars and a lifetime of servitude in exchange for a simple garroting. It was one of the best deals Quinlan ever made.
On the way to his party, at the top of the stairs, he paused, took note; his heart beat steadily in his chest and his mind was clear. His decision had calmed him, given him a sense of purpose. He again considered the numbers.
Three people were to die: Henry Castor, his mysterious pipeline, and most important, the girl—that dangerous misplaced shipment from his first life.
The girl whose name he couldn’t remember.
He ignored the tremor in his chest when he thought of her—of her beautiful, terrified green eyes.
Pity? Remorse?
Impossible. He’d taken her life over twenty years ago; what he was doing now was merely putting a signature on the death certificate.
Chapter 7
“You’re kidding me. This place is a mess. And I am not sleeping on that.” Joe glared at the sofa—short with high arms, its cushions askew, magazines dripping from it to the floor—as if the thing had jaws and a double row of teeth, then he looked at April. “I’d be crippled for a week.”
April barely glanced at Joe. She hadn’t been in the apartment for two or three months—and she hadn’t missed Phylly’s casual approach to housekeeping. To neat-freak Joe, no doubt the mess was doubly unappealing, and added to his already low opinion of his birth mother.
Although, when she looked at Joe’s large frame and the sofa’s small one, she had a twinge of empathy. “Take the bed, then. I’ll take the couch.”
What she got in response was an annoyed grimace.
Well, too damn bad for him. She didn’t care where he slept. They had no choice but to make the best of things, and it made sense, if they were going to go through Phylly’s things, to stay at her place, a modest—very messy—two bedroom apartment about a half hour southeast of The Strip. Although she had to admit the place was worse than usual. Even Phylly generally closed drawers when she opened them. God, she really had left in a hurry.
Cornie, who’d been listening and watching from the kitchen doorway, said, “For what it’s worth, little bear is sleeping in her bed, so have at it, guys.” With that she disappeared into the kitchen.
“Not exactly Martha Stewart, is she?” Joe said, the second Cornie was out of earshot.
“You’re determined not to like anything about her, aren’t you?”
The gaze he slanted her way was not attached to a smile. “I’m determined to get a good night’s sleep,” was all he said. “So how about we take a room at the Mirage? That way we can both have decent beds.” He paused, set his cold-hot blue eyes on her and grinned like a wolverine. “If we shared one of them, we’d be happier still.”
April resisted rolling her eyes, instead choosing a sweet tone. “Do you work at being obnoxious,
Joseph, or were you born with the talent?”
“You know the family lineage better than I do. You tell me.”
She let that go. They had to talk about Phylly sometime, but now wasn’t the time. April had barely slept since Cornie arrived on her Portland doorstep with the news of Phylly’s disappearance, and right now, she was too tired to scale the wall of resentment Joe had built around his mother. All she wanted was for him to lay off the tease and innuendo. Not only could she do without it, it had a false ring to it, as though he were playing the part of the idiot wolf-man purely to irritate her. No man who was serious about seduction would be so blatantly obvious—or stupid.
She was absolutely sure Joe Worth was not stupid.
And I’m mad as hell at myself for finding him attractive and amusing in spite of my better judgment.
Not that it mattered what she felt. Joe was wasting what little charm he had, because other than finding Phylly—priority one—all April wanted to do was get back to Portland and start her theater internship. She’d waited over a year for Blanche Reevis to accept her, and Rusty had given her six months of leave to study under her. April had a lot of hard work ahead of her, exciting work, and there was no room in her plan for a fast-talking, silver-eyed bodyguard—who hated his mother. Her mother.
“I think you should give serious consideration to my Mirage idea,” Joe said, sitting on the sofa and spreading his arms along its back. “It’d be a lot more comfortable than this.” He patted a sofa cushion.
She tilted her head then shook it. “You don’t even like me and you want to take me to bed. Why is that?” It wasn’t the first time since leaving Seattle she’d wondered if she’d made a mistake, having him come along. Cornie wanted it, yes, but it wasn’t as though they’d bonded as siblings. They were like a pair of alley cats fighting over the last sardine. “Well, are you going to answer me?”
“I was thinking?”
“Hard for you, is it?”
He grinned. She hated to admit it, but she enjoyed the humor in his eyes. She liked men who didn’t take themselves too . . . seriously. Then again there were those who used humor and a quick wit as a shield to keep you out. Any other time, she might’ve made the attempt to learn which kind of man he was. Or at least figure out how he managed to irritate and attract her at the same time.
“You weren’t thinking,” she said, giving him a straight look. “You were studying my ass.”
“Guilty. And those legs of yours go right up to it. Amazing, how that works.”
With no answer to that, she shook her head.
“And who said I didn’t like you. I don’t even know you”—he got up from the despised sofa—“except that you don’t like peanuts, white bread, or mushy tomatoes.”
“I thought you were asleep.” What he’d described was the excuse for lunch they’d bought for the plane earlier today—twenty dollars’ worth of awful. “But you’re right, you don’t know me. Not enough to either like or dislike me.” She crossed her arms. “Which means you have . . . issues. About me”—she jerked her head to where Cornie had left them for the kitchen—“and maybe about her.”
Joe had taken to wandering the room, touching, lifting, turning, and studying the knickknacks and cheap prints on the walls. God knows he had lots to look at; Phylly’s place was basically secondhand, junk-sale chic. The woman loved stuff. His back was to her when he said, “Real men don’t have issues.”
“No, but boys do. Boys who wonder why a mother takes in a stray—like me—and keeps her, but gives up her own son.”
When he turned to look at her, there was nothing of the boy about him. He was all towering, glowering male, with an expression so hard and uncompromising, she almost took a step back. Almost. He closed the short distance separating them and stopped directly in front of her. “You know what I think?” His low voice was soft, at odds with the darkness in his eyes.
“Not a clue, but by the look on your face, I’m guessing you’re about to tell me.” He was too close . . . April forked her fingers in her hair, shoved it behind her ear.
“That I am.” He reached out his hand, touched her hair, and brought back the strands she’d put behind her ear. Smoothing them down over the swell of her breast, he leaned forward. “I think you should mind your damn business and leave those issues you’re so concerned about to Phyllis and me.” He picked up a few strands of hair, twirled them between his thumb and forefinger and watched his own play as though fascinated. “Until now, I’d have said, your legs were your best feature. Now”—he took in a heavy breath—“I’m not so sure. You have great hair. Long. Heavy. The kind that sweeps across a man’s chest during sex. Or lower if he’s really lucky.” He lifted some strands to his nose, breathed her in. “Smells like honey and roses.” He put his face to her ear, his breath a warm storm across her cheek, her neck. “And you smell like . . . Paris.”
She pulled back, her stomach fluttery and untrustworthy. He was still holding her hair when their eyes met. “You’re trying to change the subject,” she said.
“Actually, I’m making a pass. I must be slipping if you didn’t pick up on that.” He let go of her hair and smiled, all trace of his earlier irritation gone. The man was definitely in charge of his emotions.
And far too sure of himself. “Save your clumsy passes for someone who’s interested, because I’m not.”
“I think you are.” He bent his head, lifted her chin and— She was sure he’d have kissed her if she hadn’t jumped back like a frightened hare, while he grinned like a painted mask. He was playing with her, deliberately trying to antagonize her. Well, it wasn’t going to work. “Has it occurred to you, we don’t have time for—”
“Sex? There’s always time for sex.”
She shook her head. “You’re crazy.”
“But in a good way, don’t you think?”
She opened her mouth, but her jumbled thoughts wouldn’t let her form words. “I think . . .”
The phone rang, or rather the “Happy Birthday” song played; Phylly’s idea of fun.
Thank God . . .
She took a step back, shot Joe Worth what she hoped was a sobering gaze. She’d had guys coming on to her for as long as it was legal—and before, but she’d generally felt as though there was something honest behind it, however misplaced. They either wanted sex or some kind of connection. But Joe Worth struck her as the kind of man who didn’t want anything except one-upmanship. She didn’t like it— freaking butterflies in the stomach aside.
“You going to answer that or do you have to wait until the candles are lit.”
“This conversation isn’t over.” A lame attempt at the last word and she knew it. He arched a brow and went back to his in-depth study of Phylly and Cornie’s many acquired artifacts. She found the phone under a scarf and last month’s copy of Elle. She picked up the phone. It was Leanne, Rusty’s cousin and her assistant at Hot and High, returning the call April placed when they’d arrived at Phylly’s apartment.
“Leanne, hi, I—” She’d didn’t get to finish.
And she couldn’t grasp what she was hearing.
April again thrust her hair behind her ear, and holding it back, she sat heavily on the unlovely sofa. “My God. When?” She listened hard, nodding, tears filling her eyes when she lifted them to Joe. She raised her hand against his questioning gaze, shook her head.
He watched her silently, hands on hips.
April closed her eyes, listened intently, not wanting to miss a word, while her heart sank in her chest. “When will we know? . . . How is she now? . . . Good. Yes, I know she’s tough, but—tell me everything.” Finally, she nodded. “Good idea. I’ll call the hospital. Thanks, Leanne, and God, I’m so sorry.”
April clicked off the phone and sat like carved marble on the sofa. She couldn’t think, couldn’t process . . .
Joe took the phone from her hand, set it on the side table. “What’s going on?”
“That was Leanne from Hot and High, where Phylly and
I work. She says—” She swallowed so hard it hurt her throat.
Cornie came into the room carrying two bottles of water. She stopped abruptly when her gaze met April’s. “What? You look like a zombie.”
“It’s about Rusty.”
“Who’s Rusty?” Joe asked.
“She’s my mom’s boss,” Cornie said.
“And mine,” April added. “And our best friend.”
“Geez, April, what happened?” Cornie asked.
April’s eyes started to water, and she took a second or two to settle herself down. “Rusty’s in the hospital, Cornie.”
“Oh, my God.” She put a fist to her mouth. “Was she in a car accident? What?”
Taking a breath, April said, “She was shot. Last night at work.”
“Shot. Like with a gun?”
April could only nod. “The cleaning people found her. Shortly after ten last night.” She stood, started to pace.
“Jeez . . . “Cornie sat on the other end of the sofa, clutching the bottles of water to her chest as if they were pillows. The condensation dampened her Tee. “But she’ll be okay, right?”
“Leanne said she was shot twice, that she lost a lot of blood,” April said. “She had two surgeries during the night. They’re hopeful, but they don’t really know, yet. She hasn’t regained consciousness.”
Cornie’s eyes were wide. “Does this have anything to do with Mom? Do you think?”
“I’m not sure what to think, except—” Joe was going to get his wish for a better bed, because no way was she having Cornie stay here. She looked at Joe. “Book us those rooms, would you? But not at the Mirage. We’ll go downtown, the Sandstone.”
If Joe had any questions, he let them lie. “Done.” He took out his cell.
Looking at Cornie, April said, “Pack your stuff, kiddo.”
Cornie frowned. “We just got here.”
“And now we’re leaving. We’re going to see Tommy. He’ll know more about what happened.” And April was suddenly very sure they’d be safer away from this place.
