Hot Pursuit

by Christina Skye

  “The rope pulled free.” Taylor shivered, blocking the memories.

  “It must hurt.” Her new neighbor leaned the wooden plank against the wall, muscles flexing smoothly. “You couldn’t get me up on a cliff without a gun at my back.”

  Taylor didn’t even have enough energy left to brag. “You probably won’t get me up there again either. One of the bolts broke and the rope pulled free.” Even now she couldn’t suppress a shiver. “Free fall at ninety feet isn’t exactly my idea of fun.”

  The cool gray eyes flickered over her bandaged knee again. “Sounds ugly. Sure you’re okay?”

  “Four stitches, but it could have been worse.” The lasagna smell was killing her, but she tried to look nonchalant while managing not to trip over her climbing bag.

  Her neighbor ran strong, calloused fingers thoughtfully down the rough plank. “Does that kind of thing happen a lot when you’re climbing?”

  “What kind of thing?”

  “Bolts pulling out. Free fall.”

  Only dogged pride kept Taylor on her feet, as exhaustion warred with pain from the stitches. “I don’t think so. Then again, some people have a warped idea of extreme fun.” She picked up her bag. “I’d better go and let you work on your studs.” She winced. “Nuts. I mean beams. Whatever you call them. Tell whoever’s cooking that she’s got my vote for the James Beard award.”

  She was pretty sure she heard him laugh as she closed her door, but her legs began to shake and she didn’t stay around to find out.

  An hour later, fresh from a steamy bath, Taylor padded into the kitchen and stared into her refrigerator. Optimism turned to disgust. All she had was a wilted head of lettuce and two half-eaten cartons of yogurt.

  Lasagna was her favorite food in the world, followed closely by chestnut ice cream from Berthillon’s in Paris. Unfortunately, it was a long way to Paris.

  Shaking her head, she headed down the hall to her office. In a few seconds she was deep in a scene involving two women climbers, a swift-moving bank of fog, and a sheer wall of granite.

  Taylor lasted fifty-three minutes and four pages. The fog fled, the rocks simply evaporated. So much for being creative.

  The final straw had been the chocolate fragrance filling her apartment. She paced the living room like a rabid animal and finally threw down her notebook.

  You are a total disgrace. In fact, you have the willpower of a slug.

  But what did pride matter when bittersweet chocolate was involved? She straightened her shoulders, stalked outside, and banged on the door.

  Her neighbor answered on the fourth knock. Same stellar abs. Same Van Damme shoulders on a body that belonged in a museum.

  Taylor looked up swiftly. “I know this is rude, but is that bittersweet chocolate I keep smelling?”

  He had a towel draped over one shoulder and sawdust dotting his chest. Taylor had a wild image of her fingers brushing aside the fine powder and tracing those warm, rigid muscles.

  She managed to restrain herself.

  “Ganache.” His mouth twitched. “Belgian chocolate.”

  “Dark chocolate? The really good stuff?”

  “The darker the better. The éclairs are almost done.”

  She smiled weakly. “Would you consider a trade? How about my firstborn child and a dozen active credit cards for one éclair?”

  His brow rose. “I didn’t hear any children at your place.”

  “I don’t have any—yet. I’ll get started right away if it will help.” She flushed when she realized what she’d said. “So to speak.”

  “Save the children.” He stepped aside and held open the door. “Take your pick of the éclairs. You want some lasagna to go with it?”

  Suck it in, O’Toole. Don’t drool. “Lasagna?” She managed a casual laugh. “Is that what I was smelling?”

  “It’s an old family recipe.” He gestured at a big living room outfitted with sawhorses, tools, and dozens of boxes. “It’s a mess in here, so be careful. Especially watch out for that saw in the corner.”

  Taylor sidestepped a hammer and nails, glancing at one of the boxes. “You seem to have a lot of equipment. How much renovation are you planning to do?”

  “Replace the counters. Resurface the drawers and cabinet doors. Maybe change the floor. A deep red saltillo tile would be nice.”

  Sawdust drifted. Taylor watched him shift another plank of wood with practiced ease. Why did the image of sweat and manual labor suddenly seem so sexy? “No offense, but I hope it won’t be too noisy. I work at home.”

  “What kind of work?” The question was casual as he pulled the lid off a big ceramic baking dish.

  Lasagna smells filled the air and Taylor’s knees threatened to buckle. “Writing. Suspense—heavy on characters and a solid hit of romance.” She waited for the snicker, the frown, the twist of the lips.

  He simply nodded. “Sounds interesting.”

  “It has its moments. Some days you enjoy matching a nasty face with a lethal bullet.”

  Her neighbor chuckled, measuring a piece of lasagna with his knife. “How about this much?”

  Was the Pope Catholic? “Gee, I don’t want to be greedy.”

  “No problem. I made plenty.”

  Taylor felt her jaw go slack. “You’re the cook?”

  He slid an éclair onto a plate and added a decadent amount of Belgian chocolate sauce. “My dad always said if a man wanted to eat, he owed it to himself to learn to cook. As a matter of fact, he could cook circles around my mom.” He smiled. “And she liked it just fine that way.”

  Taylor forced her mouth closed. Mr. Five-Star Biceps could cook?

  “Have some while the sauce is still warm.”

  She stared down at the plate he’d thrust into her fingers, pretty sure she was on the verge of disgracing herself. “Well, I don’t—”

  “Go on.” He leaned back against the cabinet, grinning. “Don’t tell me you’re one of these women who watches every calorie.” There was a glint of challenge in his eyes.

  “Well, no, but—”

  He slanted a look over her legs, now encased in fake leather capri pants.

  Taylor registered the faint look of challenge, and that was her undoing. She took a big bite of éclair—and nearly staggered with the decadent force of the rich chocolate and whipped cream. “Not bad,” she said huskily, licking white froth off her finger.

  Her neighbor didn’t move. “If you let me watch you eat,” he said slowly, “I’ll give you a few more.”

  Suddenly the room felt hot. Taylor picked up an electric charge that hadn’t been evident seconds before. Maybe she was hallucinating from carbohydrate overdose. “No thanks, I’d probably drool. But I appreciate the food, really. If you ever need some cappuccino, just drop by. Coffee is about the only thing I can manage in the kitchen.”

  He crossed his arms, revealing ripped muscles. “I’ll keep it in mind. Let me know if the noise bothers you.”

  “Sure.” Taylor headed back to the door on autopilot. As she turned to say good-bye, she saw him silhouetted against the big picture window, light falling over his back. His face was in shadow and he didn’t look like a carpenter.

  Now he looked cool and dangerous.

  “Did you say carpentry was your regular job?”

  “You have something against carpenters?”

  She stared at him in silence. In his face. The cool edge of challenge was back in his face.

  “Look, Mr. Broussard, the question wasn’t personal. It’s just habit for me to watch people. As a writer, part of my work is noticing how people talk, how they move. You look like an athlete. Or maybe a soldier. Definitely not a carpenter.”

  He picked up a hammer and shoved it into the tool belt riding low at his waist. “I didn’t know that carpenters had any particular look. But trust me, you’ll know that’s what I am when the banging starts.”

  Jack Broussard closed the door and frowned. He heard feet tap down the hall and a door close. Quickly he walked into
the bedroom and lifted a cardboard box, revealing a state-of-the-art surveillance system and two sets of headphones. He slid on the smaller headphones and fiddled with a dial.

  He heard the dead bolt slide home next door, followed by shoes scraping across a wooden floor. Every sound was magnified by the powerful system he’d just installed in the wall adjoining the two apartments.

  Dishes scraped in the kitchen. Water ran briefly. A refrigerator door opened, then closed.

  Broussard considered her explanation about the bandage on her leg. A bolt that pulled free at ninety feet? The woman was damned lucky she wasn’t bloody hamburger in a ravine somewhere. He had to hand her points for courage, if not for intelligence. Rock climbing wasn’t like chalking up fifteen minutes on a StairMaster twice a week.

  Amateurs never understood that you had to train for danger full time or the training didn’t stick. But was she an amateur?

  He considered the question as he pulled a cell phone from a nearby drawer and punched in a set of numbers that would appear in no phone directory anywhere.

  The phone clicked once and the call was relayed to a new location.

  Jack entered his password. Silence fell, followed by a pleasant female voice telling him he had reached a nonworking number. He knew the drill so well that he didn’t skip a beat. Jack gave his name, asked two short questions, then listened intently.

  The envelope was still waiting on the edge of her desk. Taylor didn’t have to look to see the neatly typed label and the expensive gray paper.

  She put the lasagna she had taken on the counter and went in search of silverware. Next came spring water with a wedge of lemon. An Irish linen napkin. Her knee ached as she raised the blind, giving a brilliant view of hilly San Francisco streets and a distant glint of water.

  She turned.

  The envelope was still there on her desk, mocking her, making something turn over in her chest. She didn’t have to see the papers inside to know what they said.

  You are encouraged to keep the department or this agency informed of your current address in order to permit a response to any inquiry concerning medical or social history made by or on behalf of the child who was the subject to the court action terminating parental rights.

  (a) Section 9203 of the Family Code authorizes a person who has been adopted and who attains the age of 21 years to make a request to the State Department of Social Services, or the licensed adoption agency that joined in the adoption petition, for the name and address of the adoptee’s birth parents. Indicate by checking one of the boxes below whether or not you wish your name and address to be disclosed in such a case:

  Below were three simple lines.

  □ Yes

  □ No

  □ Uncertain at this time; will notify agency at later date

  The last line was checked.

  Taylor closed her eyes. Someone had conceived her—whether in lust, boredom, or dread, she didn’t know. Nine months later she had been pulled shriveled, red-faced, and terrified from a stranger’s body and she probably would never know the reasons why. Taylor felt an explosion of fury at the woman who had turned her head, ignored her cries, and handed her over to a stranger. She hated whoever her mother was, wherever she was, whatever her reasons. She hated—and yet her heart was a ragged, seeping wound, torn in two by regret and a vast longing.

  With shaking hands she reached for the legal document, which had been shoved unnoticed and misfiled inside a collection of forms returned after the death of her family’s longtime lawyer. One call and she could initiate the search that would strip away thirty-five years of lies. One call that would open yet more wounds.

  Her fingers shook. She strained, trying to touch the envelope, her heart pounding.

  On her desk, the phone rang. Taylor froze, her hand still outstretched. She took a breath in and out, slowly, as if her life, her whole future, hung in the balance. Then her eyes flickered to the small digital screen and she read the number.

  Pick up the phone. Say one word. Say yes and they’ll start searching, trying to open the records and find your mother.

  Your other mother.

  But Taylor couldn’t move. Tears came as the phone went on ringing, each peal a new assault bringing a fresh stab of indecision.

  If she didn’t say yes, she’d never know the truth of who she was. She was entitled to a background history at least, with a reasonable assessment of genetic risks and medical concerns. If she didn’t fight for answers, the holes in her past would grow larger every year, until the anger and uncertainty overwhelmed her.

  But she couldn’t move, tears hot and slick on her face, knees shaking, heartsick.

  The phone finally stopped ringing and the silence settled around her. She thought about a baby crying in the night and she thought about the mother she’d never known, and then she slid slowly back against the counter, her wet face pressed against her hands while harsh, racking sobs consumed her.

  It was Candace’s call that roused her nearly an hour later. After a cautious glance at the number, Taylor answered with a voice that wasn’t quite steady.

  “Taylor, what’s wrong?”

  “It’s—it’s my leg, Candace. The stitches. You know.”

  “Tell me about it.” Candace gave a shaky laugh. “I’ve thrown up twice today, and I never throw up.” She took a sharp breath. “But you’re okay, right?”

  Taylor forced her thoughts away from the envelope on her desk. “I’m fine. We walked away and that’s what counts.” She hesitated. “Are you certain you gave me all the climbing gear we used?”

  “Absolutely. Not that I’d ever touch those things again. The rope really took a beating. But why—” Candace hesitated. “God. You really do believe that Harris arranged this, don’t you?”

  “Let’s just say I want some answers.”

  “But it had to be an accident, Taylor. I checked every inch of that rope myself, along with the bolts and carabiners. Everything was in tip-top shape this morning.”

  “I’m sure it was.” Taylor was determined to have the gear examined by an outside expert. If Harris had tampered with anything, Taylor was going after him big-time. But until then, she was telling Candace nothing about her plan. “So what have you heard from Lover Boy?”

  “He called a few minutes ago. He asked how things were going and if we’d had a good climb.”

  “What did you say?”

  “Everything’s peachy. That’s what I should have said, isn’t it? Not tell him the truth?”

  Taylor rubbed her forehead, where a slow throb was building to a major headache. “Don’t tell him anything. Next time he calls, just hang up.” Taylor still couldn’t figure out why Harris would try to get rid of Candace. Was he tired of her, angry with her, or was he afraid that she knew too much about some kind of trouble he was involved in? “I still think we should call the police.”

  Candace made a low sound of protest. “Not until I know what’s wrong. All of this could be a mistake.”

  “Have you seen the silver Lexus again?”

  “I haven’t gone out since I got home, but I’ll get the license number if it shows up. Meanwhile, I just wanted to say how sorry I am. Your first outdoor climb should have been fun and exciting. Instead it was . . .”

  A certified nightmare, Taylor thought grimly.

  But she kept her voice level. “Forget it, Candace. We’ll deal with Harris if he was involved. I should be thanking you. With all these aches and bruises, I have no energy left for anything but writing, which is what I should be doing anyway.”

  “That makes me feel better. And good luck with the new book. It’s a sequel, right? With a heroine who is a novice climber?”

  Taylor felt her headache grow. “That was the plan, but for some reason I can’t get any of my characters to do what they’re supposed to do. The good ones keep turning bad, and the bad ones keep redeeming themselves.”

  Actually, Taylor’s creative flow was at a standstill for the first time in her life.
She knew it had nothing to do with the climbing accident and everything to do with the big gray envelope lying on her desk. “Speaking of which, I’d better get back to it.”

  “Of course. I’ll call you with that plate number. Meanwhile, maybe you should relax, go get a haircut and a pedicure. You know, let yourself be pampered.”

  “That’s the best idea I’ve heard all day. But first I have to finish another chapter. So many murders, so little time.”

  Candace chuckled. “That’s funny, considering you’re the least bloodthirsty person I know.”

  If Rains kept up his nasty tricks, Taylor decided she might develop a taste for bloodshed. But until then, she had work to do. She hung up, gritted her teeth, and padded to her office, determined to wrestle six characters into abject submission.

  Chapter Three

  Taylor’s hands were covered in green glop.

  She stared at her nails, submerged beneath cold gel. Seventy-five dollars an hour, and you got green glop. They could charge you an extra fifty dollars for aromatherapy vitalizing essence, and it smelled nice, but it was still dish soap as far as she could see.

  After two days at home, her bruises had healed to the point of being a minor irritation. The stitches were progressing more slowly, and every tug brought back memories of her wild tumble before the lower bolt had caught, gripping her rope and breaking her fall. But she’d shoved down the terror and plunged into her work, emerging with twenty new pages. As a reward, she’d headed off for an hour of R and R at the expert hands of her old friend, Sunny de Vito.

  Candace was right. Pampering was definitely in order.

  Right now Sunny was staring at her, and Taylor realized she hadn’t heard a word her friend had said. “Sorry, I wasn’t listening.” Taylor blinked at her stylist, whom she’d known from her reckless high school days near Carmel.

  Sunny waved her styling scissors. “Forget about your climbing accident. We’ve got more important things to discuss. I said, Do you want layers?”

  “Sure.” Taylor frowned. “But no dye.”