When she opened them again, Tony was watching her, a heated, hungry look in his own eyes. “Good?” he asked hoarsely.
Afraid her voice would sound just as raw, she nodded.
“Try this.” He scooped up a piece of his roll, balancing it precariously between the slender chopsticks, and lifted it to her mouth. There was something intimate about the gesture, something curiously sweet that made her chest tighten and forced her gaze to drop away and focus instead on the bite of food he offered.
He was still watching her when she dared to look his way again. “Wonderful,” she murmured, and wondered exactly what she was referring to.
By the time the final course arrived—chilled orange halves topped with cherries—Selena was feeling quite possibly as normal as any other woman out to dinner with a handsome man. It was a state she’d known rarely in her life. Given a chance, she could learn to crave it.
When they left the restaurant, Tony rested his hand at the small of her back as they crossed the parking lot to his car. The air had cooled only a few degrees, and hung heavy and sultry. It was a perfect evening for . . . how had he put it? Relaxing under an old paddle fan and sleeping in a four-poster bed surrounded by filmy netting, with the doors open to let in the ocean breezes. For dancing under the stars and living—and loving—to the rhythm of the islands.
And not a bad night at all for a drive in a Corvette with the top down and a handsome man behind the wheel.
When they got home, Tony walked her to the door. She unlocked it, then faced him again. His expression was easy to read, even in the dim light—interest, awareness, attraction. If she gave him the slightest encouragement, he would kiss her. She could see he wanted to, could admit that deep down inside she wanted him to. Just a kiss . . . but could she risk it?
He reached out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear, his fingers warm against her skin. She resisted the urge to rub against them, like a cat against a soothing caress. “Thank you for dinner.” His voice was soft, husky.
“That’s supposed to be my line. After all, you paid.”
“Yeah, but you suggested it.” The faint sound of a dog’s bark drew his gaze to his house. When he looked back, he was grinning. “How about doing it again tomorrow? I know a place that makes the best barbecued pork sandwiches anywhere.”
Common sense insisted she turn him down, but the prospect of spending another evening alone with him was too pleasurable to refuse. “All right.” This time her own voice was warm and husky.
“All right,” he echoed. He hesitated a moment—now the kiss?—then squeezed her hand lightly and walked away.
Disappointment washed over her as she went inside and locked the door. It was for the best. She had enough danger in her life without adding a relationship with him to the mix. She couldn’t let herself get involved.
But she would have, a little voice inside her whispered. Tonight she would have risked a kiss . . . and a whole lot more.
William sat at his desk, a leather-bound journal open in front of him, a fountain pen in hand, but he wasn’t writing. Instead, his thoughts had drifted fourteen years into the past, to that fateful November trip to Ocho Rios. His business had been in its early years then, and he had been refining the techniques for living two lives: the public one—the easy, respectable one—and the secret one that excited and challenged him. Back then, he had welcomed all challenges, so when a problem had arisen with his Jamaican supplier, he’d traveled south to deal with it himself.
Instead of his usual souvenir—an antique, some local art, a pretty piece of jewelry—he’d brought back Selena. Acquired her, molded her, shaped her, created her. Because he could. Because it pleased him. Because it gave him someone to pass his business on to.
The business was important to him, more so than anything else. It gave him a sense of power and satisfaction that a more traditional life could never deliver. It ruled his thoughts, his goals, his ambitions. He loved the risks, the thrills, the danger. He loved proving time and again how good he was, and especially how much power he had over the lives of others.
He still recalled his discovery of that risk, that power. The hot, muggy air, the dirty odor of the river nearby, the delicate scent of jasmine. More than twenty-five years later, the slightest whiff of jasmine brought it all back in stark relief.
There had been no moon or stars in the sky that night, hidden by clouds heavy with rain. The promise of a downpour had been a fitting accompaniment to the two voices weeping inside the small house, one for what she had done, the other for what she had lost.
Don’t let me go to jail! That had been his sister’s command—her plea. Because he loved her, and because he’d been raised to believe that duty to family came first, he’d done all he could to ensure Kathryn’s safety. He’d finished what she started, disposed of the body, and taken care of the witness—tasks that had taken the rest of the rain-washed night—and he’d steeled himself for the steep price this particular family obligation would cost him. After all, he was an honest man, law-abiding. He would suffer the consequences.
To his great surprise, there had been no consequences. He’d felt some guilt, but not as much as he’d expected. As the days became months and his secret went undetected, he’d found himself relishing the memories. He, who had never done anything worse than cheat on his taxes, had turned a moment of passion into the perfect murder. To this day, only two people knew what had happened that stormy summer night, and only he knew everything.
It had given him a sense of achievement, the power to take one life to save another. But he’d also wanted the danger, the euphoria, the challenge of something few people ever mastered. And so had begun his descent.
But personal honor still guided him. He didn’t target the innocent. He didn’t steal from poor widows or tolerate attacks upon young women, and no one in his employ dared to hurt a child. His punishments were directed against those who deserved them.
Did Selena deserve punishment? a little voice asked.
He wasn’t punishing her, and someday she would see that. He merely expected repayment for all he’d done for her. It had taken him twenty years to build his empire, and he was offering it to her, free and clear.
And, by God, she would take it.
After getting ready for bed, Selena settled in at the kitchen table, gazing out the window as the computer booted up. No lights shone from Tony’s house. Was he working at his own computer on the far side of the house, or had he already gone to bed? Was he immersed in the lives and deaths of his drug dealers, or did he spare a thought or two for her?
She would like to say she couldn’t remember when she’d enjoyed an evening more, but it would be a lie. It had been two years ago, when Greg Marland had wined and dined her . . . before he’d tried to rape her. Before she’d killed him. That had been her last date, the last time she’d trusted a man enough to spend time alone with him.
She trusted Tony enough to spend time alone with him . . . and William expected her to kill him, too.
A shudder ripped through her, easing only when a beep from the computer demanded her attention. The information she’d provided the investigative website was sketchy; so was the information she got in return. No credit cards in the name of William Davis came back to the Riverside address. No bank records. No utility accounts. The name was too common, the biographical details too incomplete, to come up with a Social Security number or a birthdate.
The only information of any substance was the property tax data for the estate. It was deeded to DoubleD, Incorporated, which was owned by another company, also owned by someone else, and so on. Once the investigators managed to find their way through the corporate maze to the true owner, they would send her a supplemental report.
If she knew William, they would get lost in that maze and never find their way out again. No doubt, all those corporations were shams. Not one of them was going to lead to him. He was too damned good at keeping secrets.
After shutting off th
e computer and the lights, she went upstairs to bed. Sleep came easily . . . and so did awareness sometime later. The bedside clock showed that it was one-twenty-eight, and the house was so still that she could hear the faintest whisper of movement outside her bedroom door. Slowing her breaths, she slid her hand beneath the pillow to the pistol there, then eased onto her back, her eyes closed.
Once, when she was alone in the locker room, Montoya had shut off the lights, then lunged for her. That time she’d gotten the worst of it. The darkness had disoriented her, had fed her panic and tripled her heart rate. Now she used the lack of sight to heighten her other senses. The movement was footsteps, soft and careful. She felt the subtle shift in the air when the bedroom door swung open, heard the tiny whoosh it created, smelled expensive cologne. She tracked the intruder’s movements and sensed the deepening of shadows when he stopped between the bed and the window, blocking the pale light from the street lamp. Her heart was thudding, the adrenaline soaring through her veins, screaming at her to do something! But she remained motionless, her breathing deep and steady, feeling him draw nearer, nearer, until his hand, clad in leather, clamped over her mouth.
Swinging her right arm around, she brought up the muzzle of the forty cal so that a scant inch separated it from the intruder’s forehead. He froze, tension streaking through him and vibrating the air between them. Then he laughed. “If you were going to shoot me, you would’ve done it by now. You wouldn’t have hesitated and given me the chance to do this—” With his other hand, he knocked the weapon away. It landed without a sound on the mattress, just out of her reach.
Grasping his wrist, she bent it back in a wrist lock, forced his hand away from her mouth, and, at the same time, took advantage of his momentary surprise to maneuver one knee up. She planted her foot in the middle of his chest and shoved hard enough to send him stumbling backward. The wall behind him stopped his fall as she scrambled off the bed on the opposite side, then hastily searched the tangled covers for the pistol. She’d just found it when he lunged onto the mattress and grabbed her hand in a brutal grip.
“Son of a bitch!” he grunted, clawing at her fingers to free the gun.
She held on tightly, Montoya’s voice echoing in her head. Use whatever you can; outwit him, outlast him, fight dirty, and never give up. Ducking her head, she clamped her teeth onto the meaty part of the man’s hand and brought a bellow of pain from him. He let go of the gun to smack her across the face with the back of his uninjured hand, the force throwing her to the floor. She cracked one hip on the wood planks and banged the back of her head against the dresser, her vision blurring as bright points of light danced across the darkness.
Never give up, Montoya whispered, taunted.
The man, all shadows, was cradling his hand, swearing, arrogant enough to think that because she was down, she was out. She eased to her knees, none too steady, then to her feet, drew a deep breath, and lashed out with a side kick, her foot connecting solidly with his jaw. He went down hard, crashing against the night table and shattering the beaded lamp.
“You crazy fucking bitch!” He lay there a moment, breathing heavily.
His voice was muffled by the balaclava that covered his head and all of his face except his eyes, but even so it was familiar. Someone she knew? Someone she’d met since coming to Tulsa? Or someone . . . merely someone she’d spoken to on the phone. The man who’d called the night before, who had broken into her house yesterday afternoon, who most likely worked for William.
“What do you want?” she demanded, her breaths rasping as loudly as his.
“Do you know how easily I could have killed you?”
“As easily as I could kill you now.” She’d lost the gun once again when he’d backhanded her, but she didn’t need a gun to kill. A marble-and-bronze statue had done the job the first time. A well-placed kick or chop could do it now. “Did William send you?”
He struggled to his feet, then shook his head as if to clear it. “I don’t know anyone named William.”
“Right. Tell him I got his message.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” When he took a few steps toward the door, she took a few away. It was a bad move on her part, though, because at the last instant he pivoted, grabbed her by the throat, and shoved her against the wall next to the window, pinning her there with his body. Her lungs emptied of air and she couldn’t squeeze a breath past his grip, couldn’t manage even the smallest of kicks, couldn’t do anything but pry at his hand as the need for oxygen burned through her.
Fight dirty, Montoya reminded her. An eye for an eye, William added. Blindly she grabbed at the man’s face, scratching, gouging. The balaclava came away, and he swore viciously as the street lamp dimly illuminated one side of his face.
“Oh, God.” Selena thought she’d whispered the plea in her head, but heard her voice, tiny and trembling. “Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God.”
Releasing her, he grabbed the balaclava, spun, and thudded away. She didn’t snatch up the gun and run after him, didn’t do anything but sink to the floor and gulp in oxygen to ease the panic racing through her.
It wasn’t Greg Marland. He was dead. She had killed him. Had cracked his skull with the statue that sat on the sofa table in William’s guesthouse. Had splattered his blood on her hands, face, and torn clothes. Had left him crumpled and dead or dying while she panicked and called William. He was dead. William had told her. She’d seen it for herself.
As her heart rate slowed and her alarm subsided, she worked to calmly explain away the panic. It was just the stress of being back in Tulsa, or a delayed reaction to Tuesday evening’s dinner in the guesthouse. It was only logical that the first genuine assault she’d encountered since Marland had attacked her would remind her of him.
Greg Marland was dead, which made him the least of her problems. This man had been sent by William. He suspected he couldn’t trust her, suspected he’d lost some of his control over her, and so he’d sent her a warning. It would appeal to his perverse nature to send that warning via a man who resembled the ghost that haunted her.
She didn’t know how long she sat there, huddled on the floor. When the air-conditioning sent a chill through her entire body and her hip throbbed too much to ignore, she forced herself to her feet, located the forty cal where it had slid under the bed, then crawled between the covers.
Regularly through the years William had boasted about all he’d done for her—how he’d saved her life, how he’d given her a new life, how he’d turned her into an educated, intelligent, capable woman.
She had no argument with him taking all the credit. He deserved it. He had made her what she was.
A woman who hated him with every fiber of her being.
10
Leaving Simmons to his own devices Friday morning, Tony paid a visit to the David L. Moss Criminal Justice Center. He went in through the main entrance, then walked to the alcove where banks of lock boxes lined the walls. After securing both his service weapon and the .9 millimeter Smith & Wesson he carried for backup, along with the extra cartridges and his canister of pepper spray, he headed down the hall and requested an interview with Albert Spradlin.
He was seated in a small conference room when Spradlin was escorted in, wearing the standard jumpsuit, along with handcuffs and leg irons. The greasy-haired bastard grinned when he saw the results of his handiwork.
“Sit,” the guard directed, and Spradlin willingly slid into the seat across from Tony. He waited until the guard was gone to speak.
“You’re fuckin’ lucky I didn’t put you in the hospital.”
“You’re fuckin’ lucky I didn’t put you in the morgue,” Tony replied.
“Big talk from a little guy,” Spradlin taunted.
“A little guy who carries a damn big gun,” he reminded him. “I want to talk about Dwayne.”
“I know my rights. I don’t gotta talk to you without my lawyer present.”
“You’re right. And I don’t have to help you.
”
Spradlin studied him with beady eyes. “Help me how?”
“You’re going back to prison, Bucky, you know that. Detective Collins has already filed an application to revoke your parole. I can’t do anything about that . . . but I can do something about those felony assault charges you’re facing. I can talk to the DA. Tell him you’re cooperating with us on a multiple homicide. Ask him to go easy on you. Maybe even drop the charges. All you’ve got to do is tell me everything you know that might help us catch this guy.”
Bucky leaned forward. “How do I know you’ll do what you say?”
“You’ll have to trust me. Dwayne did.”
“Yeah, well, Dwayne’s dead. That’s not much of a recommendation, is it?”
Tony didn’t respond, but merely waited, his gaze fixed on Spradlin. The man glared back, shifted uneasily in his seat, then blew out a rush of air. “What do you want to know?”
“Dwayne made a call to the police station the day he died. What was it about?”
Spradlin shrugged. “I don’t know. I hadn’t seen him since Saturday.”
“Do you know who he was calling?”
“Nope.”
“Had he had any trouble with anyone recently?”
Spradlin shrugged again.
“You told Detectives Simmons and Collins something about the killer making a phone call, setting up a meet, and killing his targets. Did you hear that’s been happening?”
For a long time Spradlin did nothing but stare at him. Tony said mildly, “If you want me to talk to the DA . . .”
“Guy in a bar told me them last three that was killed got a call from some guy wanting to discuss business with them just before they died. Dwayne got a call like that, too. Fucker said he was friends with this guy named Arias I knew down in McAlester.”
“What was he in for?”
“Drugs. Murder. He’s still there.”
“What’s his first name?”
“Jose. Jorge. Somethin’ Mexican.”
The Assassin Page 18
