Hot Pursuit

by Christina Skye

  “I think it’s possible, and I can’t take that chance, Taylor. Do you understand?”

  She stared at the framed photographs on her desk.

  Annie holding a handful of wildflowers from the garden. Annie and Sam with a class of schoolchildren in D.C. Annie and Sam getting married, their faces filled with a glow that radiated right off the paper.

  Taylor had threatened all that. She closed her eyes, squeezed back the bite of tears. “I . . . understand. I won’t see her. I won’t call. Not until all this is over. Just tell her . . .”

  Tell her what?

  That she was sorry she had always been a screwup? That she was sorry she had endangered the one person she loved most?

  So empty. So pointless.

  “Tell her hello. That’s all.”

  Taylor hung up quickly. The windows blurred as she stared out toward the bay, blue and gold in the afternoon sun.

  The alarm screamed, and Taylor shot upright, clutching her pillow.

  3:30 A.M.

  Normal people hadn’t even gone to bed yet.

  Sighing, she stumbled toward the closet. At least her clothes were hung where she could find them. Otherwise she’d be throwing on red leather with purple plaid.

  She’d have worn her favorite black leather jacket except it was history, thanks to the thugs who’d tried to kidnap her at the convenience store. Instead, she held up a pair of nicely fitted black jeans. Okay, so they were nicely tight. Thanks to all her surveillance snacking.

  She tossed the clothes over her shoulder with a sigh. The next time her publisher asked her to do a warehouse signing, she’d take out a gun and shoot herself.

  “She did what?” Izzy sounded exhausted.

  Jack knew exactly how he felt. He was tugging on his shoes and grabbing his jacket as he talked. “She ducked out at 3:45. Lucky I have a silent alarm to alert me when her front door opens.” Jack holstered his gun, sprinted for the door. “She’s already in the elevator, damn it. I’ll have to call the doorman and ask him to hold her.”

  “Good luck.”

  Jack rang off, then punched the intercom.

  “Yes, Mr. Broussard?”

  “Ms. O’Toole is on her way down, and I need to talk to her. Can you tell her to wait for me in the lobby?”

  “Happy to, sir. Hold on, please.” There was some bustling, then the sound of footsteps. “Sorry, Mr. Broussard. She says a limousine is waiting. She’d prefer to speak to you later.”

  Like hell she would. “Tell her to wait. There’s a fifty-dollar tip in it for you.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Jack fumed as he waited for the elevator, then jumped on and pounded the button for the lobby. The doors had barely opened when he shot out after Taylor.

  The doorman was on the front steps, looking anxious. “Sorry, Mr. Broussard. I tried to stop her, but—”

  “Which car?”

  “Over there. The black limo. Her publisher always uses the same company.”

  Jack didn’t hear anything else because he was sprinting along the sidewalk, reaching the limousine just as the driver started out into traffic.

  Jack cut him off, standing in the street and blocking his way.

  The driver frowned. “Sorry, Ms. O’Toole, but there’s some nut out there waving his arms. You know him?”

  Taylor stared into the beam of the headlights, then sighed. The nut was her neighbor. “I’ll talk to him, Curtis.” She rolled down her window and leaned out. “I’m late, Jack. Could you please move?”

  “Get out of the car.” He was dressed all in black, and his eyes could have scored diamonds as he strode around to her window.

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “Out. Now.” When she didn’t move fast enough, he slid a hand inside, unlocked her door, and yanked it open.

  The driver spun his head. “Hey, buddy, you can’t—”

  “I just did,” Jack snapped, pulling Taylor outside.

  “Ms. O’Toole?”

  Taylor crossed her arms as fury tore through her. “Wait a moment, Curtis. I’m certain this is all a mistake.”

  “Like hell it is.” Jack scanned the dark street, then motioned to the driver. “You can clear out now. The lady won’t need your services. I’ll be driving her wherever she needs to go.”

  “No way. I can’t just drive off.”

  “Sure you can.” Jack pulled out a leather wallet with a picture ID. “S.F.P.D. The lady and I have business to finish.” He stared at Taylor. “Don’t we, Ms. O’Toole?”

  Taylor pulled at his hand, but it was like trying to move a tank. “Jack, this is ridiculous,” she hissed.

  “Send the driver away. You won’t be needing him.”

  “But—”

  “Don’t waste any more of his time.”

  Taylor bit back an angry answer and dredged up a smile. “Thanks, Curtis. I’ll get to the signing myself. It will be fine.”

  “But, Ms. O’Toole—”

  Jack shoved a card at the limo driver. “You heard the lady. If there’s a problem about your bill, send it there.” He pulled Taylor back into the building. “It’s the least Izzy can do.”

  “I still don’t see the problem.”

  Taylor was fuming as she followed Jack through the parking garage. “I was on company business and I have a companyarranged driver. Why are you getting so worked up about this?”

  “Why? Because we had an agreement. You gave me your promise.”

  “Of course I did. But I didn’t think—”

  Jack yanked open her door. “Yeah, you don’t think. This is real, Taylor. If something goes wrong here, people bleed, and the red stuff isn’t in your imagination. Maybe you can manage to remember that.”

  She stood by the car, livid, her hands opening and closing. “Are you saying I’m irresponsible as well as stupid?”

  “I’m saying that there are rules, Taylor. We discussed them, and you agreed. I expect you to abide by them, whether they’re convenient, whether you like them, or even whether they make sense. You just follow them.”

  She glared at him. “Rules are a big thing with you, Broussard. Do you want me to click my heels and salute now?”

  His eyes didn’t waver. “No, I want you to get in the damned car. I won’t be pulled into an argument or a discussion, even if it will make you feel better.”

  She tried for a snappy, biting answer, but all her words were gone, swept away by the nagging thought that he could be right. “Fine. You can drive me.” She slid into the seat, her body stiff. “We’re going to Oakland, with one stop on the way.”

  “Where in Oakland?”

  Taylor rattled off an address, then pointed across the street. “Stop over there first.”

  She expected a protest.

  She got only cool reserve.

  The man had ice in his veins. She hated people who evaded her questions—especially when she was in the mood for a nice, full-decibel argument.

  Bavarian cream.

  Vanilla cream.

  Chocolate cream.

  Muttering, Taylor mulled over the merits of raspberry filling versus marble ribbon frosting. In the end she took a dozen of both, for a grand total of twelve dozen.

  To say nothing of five gallons of iced cappuccino.

  The flustered young woman rang up what was probably her biggest order ever and laboriously made change. While she boxed the doughnuts, Taylor rubbed her neck and forced herself to relax. She wasn’t wrong and she wasn’t going to apologize. No way. How was she to know that Jack meant she couldn’t go anywhere, even with a trustworthy driver? She rode with Curtis every time she went to Oakland, for heaven’s sake.

  And she wasn’t argumentative.

  Jack was waiting at the door when she stepped outside, nearly hidden behind a tower of cardboard boxes.

  She made a point of not looking at him.

  “I’ll take those.”

  “I can manage,” Taylor said tightly, hefting the boxes and trying not to drop the large t
hermos filled with coffee.

  She positioned her assorted treasures in Jack’s car without a word, and the silence held for almost twenty minutes, until they turned into a huge warehouse parking lot surrounded by floodlights. Even at this early hour, vans and tractor-trailers were revved up beside brawny men who rolled boxes from truck to truck.

  Two raised their hands and called out a greeting.

  In answer, Taylor held up a doughnut box like a battle prize. By the time she had parked in a space near the front door, there were four men waiting to help her unload.

  Jack didn’t look happy at her audience. “Friends?”

  “The best. They’re the ones that keep the books moving—any day and every day. See you later, Broussard.”

  She figured the doughnuts would last maybe fifteen minutes, given these guys’ appetites. And that was a generous estimate.

  Experience had taught her that book merchandisers were a hungry lot.

  Jack watched, frowning. What in the hell was she doing now? Hauling a thousand doughnuts into the middle of an Oakland warehouse an hour before dawn?

  The front door opened. More people spilled out. They were calling her Ms. Taylor. Jack scratched his head and then the image clicked in.

  M.M. Taylor was her pseudonym.

  Okay, so it was something to do with her books, but why here? Hotshot writers went to fancy galas at big, glittering hotels, didn’t they?

  Taylor gave a warm hug to a woman with a long apron and a pencil shoved above her ear. They walked inside together arm in arm.

  As the door closed, Jack moved in closer, studying a big poster by the front entrance. Taylor’s picture and three book covers were fanned out over white cardboard.

  She was signing here?

  Thoroughly confused, Jack pulled out his phone. If he had to be up at this miserable hour, Izzy might as well be, too.

  But Izzy sounded fit and chipper, Jack noted sourly. “Okay, I give up. What’s she doing in a warehouse in south Oakland at 5 A.M.?”

  “Coffee and doughnuts with the drivers and merchandisers.”

  “Merchandisers?”

  “The most important people in the literary food chain, buddy. They’re the ones who restock the books in grocery stores, pharmacies, discount stores. Everywhere books are sold that isn’t a bookstore.”

  The picture began to dawn. “Authors do this a lot?”

  “Some. Taylor’s got a knack for making readers where you wouldn’t always expect them.”

  Jack watched two big men in flannel shirts stride inside, pointing at the sign. “No kidding.” He sat down on a bench where he could see the front door and most of the parking lot. “With this kind of audience, I guess she’ll be safe.” He sighed. “Of course, I’d give my right arm for a fresh doughnut and a cup of that coffee.”

  “No one said surveillance was fun.”

  Jack watched Taylor handing off boxes to several new arrivals who were wearing long aprons with big pockets. “Looks like she enjoys this kind of stuff.”

  “That’s why she’s so good at it.”

  “So this is what—some kind of goodwill visit?”

  “Not exactly. They’ve been after her to come for several months. They’re all trying to find out what happens in her next book.”

  Jack shook his head. Books were okay, but he couldn’t see what all the excitement was about. Sure, he read Clancy and Patterson, but he wouldn’t die if he had to do without. “What’s the big deal? Some things happen, some people talk a lot, the book ends.”

  Izzy chuckled. “Read the book, Jack. See for yourself.”

  The line clicked off.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Trucks were coming and going and the parking lot was filling up, but Taylor still hadn’t reappeared.

  Twenty minutes had passed and Jack was getting edgy. Not that he thought she was in danger, but mission rules specified keeping the subject in visual range, and he didn’t like violating procedure, no matter how strange the location or the assignment.

  He walked into the front lobby, thinking how good a doughnut would taste, not to mention a hot cup of coffee. Frowning, he studied the hand-lettered sign on the poster. Will she or won’t she? was written across the top in big red letters.

  What was that all about?

  Beneath the lettering, Taylor’s picture held an air of mystery, but the effect was offset by her jaunty black beret and the little Jack Russell terrier she held in her arms.

  It was a knockout all right. Jack felt his mouth easing into a grin without conscious effort.

  “If you’re here to meet Ms. Taylor, you’d better hurry. She’s running out of books back there.” A big man with a blue tattoo was waving to Jack from the inner doorway. Through the swinging doors behind him, laughter drifted out.

  Okay, Broussard. Think fast. “Uh, actually, I—”

  “Go on. No need to be shy. She’s great.”

  Jack cleared his throat. “Well, I don’t really need to—”

  “Hang on.” The man crossed his big arms, studying Jack. “You a friend of hers?”

  Jack nodded.

  The man held out a callused hand, studying Jack hard. “Name’s O’Reilly. You in the Marines?”

  “No.”

  “Something close. You got the look. Rangers?”

  Jack shifted uncomfortably. “Navy.”

  The man didn’t look convinced. “Regular Navy?”

  “This and that,” Jack muttered.

  “How long you been out?”

  “Sometimes it seems like forever,” Jack said dryly.

  “I hear you there. So what are you doing with Ms. Taylor?”

  “I’m here because—” Jack cleared his throat, racking his brain. “Because I’m Ms. Taylor’s—”

  Brother?

  Boyfriend?

  Agent?

  “Driver,” he finished briskly. “Shuttling her around. Keeping an eye on things. You understand.”

  The big man nodded. “Well, why didn’t you say so? Important lady like her needs a driver.” He kept on nodding. “You take care of her, okay? Meanwhile, we’re taking bets on what happens in the next book. I got a hundred dollars riding on the little lady.”

  Jack tried not to look blank.

  “Don’t tell me you haven’t read The Forever Code?”

  “No.”

  “The Seventh Circle?”

  Jack shook his head.

  “Hell, you don’t know what you’re missing. Hang on.” The driver vanished into a nearby office and returned with three thick books. “On the house. Read them in order. I’d get you a doughnut, but they were picked clean fifteen minutes ago. The boxes might be gone soon.” He smiled happily. “Some of those guys are animals.”

  “How about some coffee instead?” Jack took the books, but caffeine was what he really wanted. He had no intention of reading Taylor’s stories, but he didn’t want to be rude. As soon as he got outside, he’d dump them and no one would be the wiser.

  He sipped the coffee O’Reilly had given him. “Thanks. So you’re telling me a lot of guys read her stuff?”

  “Hell, yes. After a few books, you get to know the characters. Like one big crazy family, except someone’s always killing someone else. And that Lola. You gotta love her.”

  Jack raised one brow. “Lola is the heroine?”

  “Nah.” O’Reilly tapped the photograph on the poster. “Lola’s the dog. The name’s a mistake, because she’s really a he, only the previous owner was too nearsighted to notice. Only cross-dressing Jack Russell terrier I ever heard about.” The big driver shook his head. “That little mutt gets into more trouble than all the other characters combined. Wears a little red tartan coat, sharp as anything. Worth the cost of the book just to see what she—I mean he—is gonna do next.”

  A cross-dressing Jack Russell terrier?

  “And that P.I. of hers. Hell of an ending to a book.”

  “How’s that?”

  O’Reilly snorted. “No w
ay, pal. You wanna find out, read the book. Then you’ll be in misery waiting for the next one along with the rest of us.”

  Jack smiled politely, but he couldn’t imagine any book bothering him after the last page. After all, it was just someone’s imagination. What was the big deal about made-up people and made-up conversations?

  He was all set to ask O’Reilly how much longer the signing would last when he heard a low trill of laughter behind him. The sound did something odd to his muscles.

  So what if she had a great laugh? Stow it, idiot.

  The door swung open. “What are you doing in here?” Taylor stood holding a company apron and hat.

  “Ready to take you to your next signing, Ms. Taylor.” Jack tried to sound cool and professional. “The car’s outside. Anything you need me to carry for you?”

  “I’ll tell you what you can carry—”

  Jack cleared his throat. “We don’t want to be late.”

  She put one hand on her hip and stared at him some more. “Is that a fact? Well, if you think I’m going to—”

  Jack cut her off, taking the briefcase she was carrying, along with the hat and apron. “Almost seven. Freeway’s going to be a nightmare.” He nodded at O’Reilly. “Thanks for the coffee, but we’d better get moving.”

  “No problem. See you next year, Ms. Taylor. Just get that new book finished, okay. We’re dying here.”

  Taylor looked distracted as she smiled at the big Irishman. “I’m working on it, Thomas. You just keep those books moving while I do that, okay?”

  “You got yourself a deal.”

  Taylor frowned as Jack hustled her toward the entrance. “Hey, what are you—”

  “Time is money, Ms. Taylor. Remember what your agent told you.”

  “My agent never—”

  Jack pushed her through the door and let it swing closed behind him. “Can’t you do anything without an argument?” He shook his head, striding down the closest row of cars. “I’m parked over here.”

  “Good for you. Have a nice trip back.” Taylor grabbed her briefcase and pulled, but Jack didn’t let go.

  “Not without you.” He studied her stonily. “You’re in danger and my job is to keep you safe.”