Silence. “I knew something was wrong. What did that guy Rains do now?”
“Trust me, you don’t want to know.”
“Hold on.” There was a lot of laughing, then the sound of papers rustling. “Okay, here’s his newest number.”
Taylor wrote it down, frowning. “Why new?”
“He changes it a lot. He has to be careful. People watch him.”
Great, Taylor thought. Talking to the King of Wiseguys might get her onto some top-secret government list. Of course, thanks to Rains, she was probably on the list already.
She sighed with relief as she saw the ladies’ room was empty. Tossing down her purse, she sat on the nearest sink and jotted down Uncle Vinnie’s number. “Thanks for your help, Sunny.” Taylor needed a second opinion from an informed resource, and outside J. Edgar Hoover, no one was as informed as Vinnie de Vito.
“You haven’t received any more Goth flower arrangements via messenger, have you?”
“No, all quiet.” Except for an attack on my sister and vehicular pursuit. “I’ll let you know about the time for tomorrow. Thanks for . . . you know.” Taylor smiled into the phone. “Everything. You’re pretty great, Sunny.”
“Stow it, kid. You’ll have me blubbering and I’ve got clients stacked up wall to wall here.” Sunny’s voice fell. “And for the record, so are you. Just remember, Green Goddess drinks for a month.”
After making a gagging sound, much to Sunny’s delight, Taylor hung up and dialed again. This time a woman with a cultured European voice answered. “Weston Financial.”
Wrong number?
But the woman put Taylor through immediately, and then Uncle Vinnie was on the line.
“Taylor, how are you? Sunny says you’re close to finishing your next book. I hope she’s right.”
Not exactly. She had to stay alive long enough. But Taylor managed a laugh. “It’s coming along fine.”
“Really.” That dry, canny voice was strangely relaxing. “Then why do you sound so nervous?”
Taylor glanced at her face in the nearest mirror. White cheeks. Tired eyes. Who was she kidding?
She took a deep breath. “Deadlines are never fun. But I’m calling to ask a favor.”
“Ah.” Silence fell.
“Nothing—physical,” Taylor said quickly. Not a hit. “Just some information.”
“I imagine that can be arranged. Are we talking about Harris Rains?”
“I’m impressed.”
“Don’t be.” Vinnie gave a dry laugh. “Not yet, at least. My niece has a large mouth and she mentioned your problems. I don’t like the fact that your friend Rains has vanished.”
“Where did you hear that?”
“People owe me favors. Sometimes I collect in information. But I’m not getting much about Rains. When no one gives details, it’s always a bad sign. I suggest that you be careful.”
“What about Rains?” Taylor lowered her voice. “Any idea where he went?”
“Nothing solid. But a number of people seem to be looking for him. Most of them appear to be from South America.” His voice was grim. “And now they also appear to be following you.”
Did the man know everything?
“Any names?”
“I’ll work on it. But if this is research for a book you’ve been engaged in, I suggest you put it aside. No book is worth dying over.”
“This isn’t about my book, Uncle Vinnie. It’s about my life.”
“Did you know that the government’s involved?”
“I did, but how do you know that?”
He made a noncommittal sound. “This man Broussard has a solid reputation. Stay close to him, Taylor.”
“But—”
“Take my advice. Leave this to Broussard and his people. This is not a good time for taking chances. Too many people are already involved.” Somewhere on his end of the phone a car horn blared. “Now I’d better go. Ciao, Taylor.” The line went dead.
For a long time she didn’t move. When she realized she was still holding the cell phone, she shoved it back into her purse, then stared bleakly into the mirror.
She looked as if she hadn’t slept for a month. She was pretty sure she looked scared, too, except she was working hard to hide it. Maybe Uncle Vinnie was exaggerating about the danger. But maybe not.
She clutched her purse to her chest. She didn’t know anything about Rains, but the guys who were after him didn’t appear to know that. What was she supposed to do, wear a sign? Something like DON’T SHOOT ME, BECAUSE I DON’T KNOW ANYTHING.
Taylor closed her eyes. Someone was following her. Someone had attacked her sister. She had to deal with the cold reality of these two facts.
She slammed on the water, washed her hands, then added a quick swipe of lipstick, just so she wasn’t mistaken for Lady Dracula went she went back outside.
As she finished, the outer door opened, booming eerily in the empty room. With Uncle Vinnie’s warning still fresh in her eyes, Taylor backed into a corner and took off her shoe, gripping it like a weapon.
Her waitress sauntered in, eyes narrowed as she took in Taylor’s bare foot. “You Taylor?”
“That’s right.”
The waitress gestured over her shoulder toward the door. “Your boyfriend is out there worried something might have happened to you.” She pursed her lips. “Don’t see what could happen in a bathroom, but what do I know?” She smiled dreamily. “Of course, if a man as fine as that was worrying about me, I wouldn’t be hiding in here. I’d be in the backseat of a car giving him whatever he wanted.” She angled Taylor another curious look.
Taylor straightened her clothes and dropped her shoe. “We’re not—involved. Not that way.”
“Are you kidding? That man is prime. Did you check out his butt?”
“Not actually,” Taylor lied.
The waitress gave Taylor a look that questioned her sanity. “You telling the truth? He’s not yours?”
Taylor slid on her shoe, frowning. “Consider him free territory.”
“Territory?” The waitress frowned for a moment. “Oh—you mean no claims. Like that.”
Taylor nodded. “Like that.”
“Thanks for the tip.” The waitress went out whistling, digging in her pocket for a pen.
Taylor emerged to find Jack outside, drumming his fingers on the wall, looking downright surly.
“I thought you came down with an intestinal disorder. Considering you barely ate, that seemed unlikely.”
“So you sent in your crack interrogation person.”
Jack smiled faintly. “She was more than willing to help.”
“I’ll bet she was.” Taylor sniffed as she walked past him.
“Your food’s cold. I asked her to put the pancakes in a take-out container, along with the sausages and syrup.”
Taylor stopped. “Being nice, Broussard?”
“Don’t take it personally. It’s called being practical. You can’t think on an empty tank.”
“I’ll be sure to remember that nutritional gem.” Actually, Taylor did feel a little wobbly, but her discussion with Uncle Vinnie had killed all remains of her appetite.
“Were you talking to someone in there?” Jack asked suspiciously.
“My friend Sunny called back about makeup for tomorrow.” As Taylor hoped, the talk of makeup stopped Jack cold.
He shrugged and scooped up the check. “Let’s go.”
“Only if we split half.”
“Forget being politically correct. Uncle Sam is paying. As long as you’re an official target, I’m picking up the tab.”
“Just because I’ve accepted protection doesn’t mean I’m giving up economic control over my life.”
His eyes narrowed. “So this is about control?”
“Probably.”
“You want to pay? You’re getting a meal ticket and you’re turning it down?”
“Not that I expect you to understand,” she added tightly.
Jack turned away. Tayl
or was pretty sure he muttered something rude as he pulled out his wallet. “Fine. I’ll pay half. Now can we go?”
“Not quite.” Taylor pointed across the table. “I think you’ve forgotten something.”
“What? I’ve got the check and your food.” He turned as Taylor pulled a folded piece of paper from underneath his napkin, dangling it in the air.
A phone number was scrawled in big bold strokes. Taylor read the words underneath. “‘Call me if you want some major action.’ ” She raised an eyebrow and sighed. “I just love it when a woman gets sexual with a man she barely knows. It’s such—gender equality.” To her surprise, Taylor could have sworn he flushed. “I suppose women try to pick you up for sex all the time.”
Jack grabbed the paper and shoved it deep into his pocket, scowling. “Forget about it. Let’s get moving.”
Taylor ran a finger across his leather jacket and flipped up his collar. “What, you aren’t going to leave her an answer?”
Jack caught her hand. Something flashed through his eyes as he stood beside her, his body tense, their thighs brushing. Taylor felt a sudden jolt of awareness in the pit of her stomach. To her shock, his fingers slid down, curling around her palm.
Suddenly, inexplicably, she wanted to feel his hand on her cheek. On her skin.
Everywhere.
His face was unreadable. “Just for the record, I don’t jump strangers.”
“No?” Taylor’s mouth got even drier as he stepped her back against the booth until they were chest to chest, glare to glare. What a body, she thought dimly. “Who do you jump?” she asked breathlessly.
Their eyes locked. Taylor had an odd sense of weightlessness, of utter buoyancy as their bodies slid together. The waitress was right. The man had one prime body, and everything was in perfect working order, as far as Taylor could tell. The fit was almost enough to give her an orgasm right there, surrounded by people eating oatmeal, muffins, and tofu-burgers.
And he was definitely having a reaction, judging by the feel of his thighs pressed against her. What if he kissed her right here?
Worse yet, what if she closed her eyes and kissed him right back, letting her fingers slide through that thick hair while their tongues did a slow, shameless dance of discovery?
Her heart was slamming when he moved away, scooping up her napkin. “Can’t forget this.”
“Why not?” Taylor blinked at the crumpled paper.
“Because you were doodling. This is government evidence.”
“Of what?”
“Beats me, but someone might decide it meant something. Izzy can probably make out your life story from those scrawls.” His brow rose. “Something wrong? You’re breathing a little too hard.”
Taylor took an angry step back and smoothed her sweater. “Jerk,” she muttered.
“At your service.” He smiled coolly. “And I’m always ready for major action.”
“Tell it to someone who cares.”
Not a great answer, but it was the best Taylor could manage with her knees shaking and her heart lurching around in her chest while images of hot, impersonal sex shot through her brain.
Why now? And why, God help her, with him?
“What do you mean, he blew up the lab?” Viktor Lemka strode onboard the yacht Andromeda, moored a mile out beyond the Oregon coast. He’d been gone for barely twenty-four hours and these dog-faced fools destroyed everything. “Where is he?”
The nearest man, a pockmarked Albanian hired three weeks earlier in a bar in Los Angeles, took a step away from Lemka. “There is another problem, sir. You see, after the explosion burned the galley, the American—”
Lemka backhanded the frightened man, sending him right off the deck, down into the cold, choppy waves.
No one went to his aid.
“I want no problems. I want only solutions. You.” He jabbed a finger at the nearest man, who went pale. “Take me to Rains.”
“Of course, Mr. Lemka.” The man gestured hopefully toward the companionway.
Lemka frowned as he saw the black marks streaking the wood wall. Rains would howl with pain for this, he swore. He’d choke on his own sobs while he lost his fingers one by one. “Show me.” Lemka swung down the steps, blind with his anger and a vast need for revenge.
When he saw the devastated room covered in ash, he screamed in fury.
Because the galley was gutted, empty. His precious captive was gone.
Chapter Twenty-five
Taylor turned at her door, keys in hand. “You can go now.”
Jack didn’t move.
“Did you want something else?”
“I’d like to look around.”
“You want to go through my desk, dig in my drawers? The answer is no.”
“I need to get a sense of possibilities. I can’t help feeling there’s something we overlooked. I want this thing finished as much as you do.”
Taylor sighed, then held open the door. “All right. But you call me before you dig in anything . . . personal.”
“Promise.”
She watched him roam past the big bookcase, running his fingers over the book covers. “I’ll be in my office if you need me.”
Jack waved a hand, studying the room. “Don’t let me keep you.”
Jack knew he was about to rip up at her for things that weren’t her fault, like this whole misbegotten assignment. To avoid that, he’d been purposefully rude. He was relieved when she vanished and her keyboard began clicking. Slowly he wandered through the room, past the bookcases, past two framed prints of sea otters in a churning sea, wondering how she and Rains were connected.
He picked up a photo of Taylor and Annie bodysurfing in Big Sur as teenagers. Next to it was a photo of Sam and Annie McKade at their wedding, both looking happy as hell. He prowled some more, searching for anything out of place.
A scrap of paper.
A postage stamp printed wrong.
A package with no labels.
Was there something shoved into a corner or stacked out of sight where Taylor might have missed it? Slowly, methodically, he went from one bookshelf to the next, scanning every title, checking above and behind. Next he lifted all the art on the wall, looking for envelopes or papers tacked out of sight on the back of the frame.
After that, he checked under the chairs, desk, and couch, then lifted the rug.
Nothing again.
Hell, what did he expect, a capsule of toxic white powder hidden inside a flowerpot? A piece of paper with scrawled lab notes shoved beneath the blotter on her desk? Rains was immoral and unstable, but he was no fool. He’d won awards for fast-track research in plant lectins and he had a reputation for getting results when no one else could. The thing that bothered Jack was, why Taylor? She wasn’t part of the scientific circles Rains moved in. She probably wouldn’t have recognized the lethal yet beautifully decorative castor bean, even if she was about to bite into one.
Maybe that was part of the attraction. As an outsider, Taylor wouldn’t realize what she had. Assuming she found it, she wouldn’t even know whom to contact for answers. In a strange way, she would be the safest haven, a place where Rains could park something out of sight indefinitely—something to use as a bargaining chip if his business buddies got impatient and decided to rearrange his face.
There was a strange logic in its illogic. With Taylor and Candace friends, Rains could easily track Taylor down and reclaim whatever he’d left with her, if and when he needed it. But if this was Rains’ plan, why would he threaten Taylor with the funeral flowers? And above all, why the tampering with the bolt, causing the climbing accident?
More questions Jack couldn’t answer.
He gave the room another thorough sweep. Book by book, he riffled pages, then checked the window frames and blinds. He opened drawers and ran his hand inside and underneath every corner. He even checked the wallboards.
No folded papers. No computer disks taped just out of reach. Hell, in the movies, James Bond always found the hidden mi
crochip just about now.
In the next room, the typing continued. At least someone was being productive, Jack thought grimly. On impulse, he pulled out Taylor’s latest book and flipped to chapter one.
What the hell? If you wanted to understand a writer’s life, maybe you had to start with what they had written. Not that Jack meant to read for long. Most stories left him cold, and he gave this one about two minutes to do the same thing. He was only searching for an angle they’d overlooked.
He listened to see if the typing continued.
It did.
Feeling uncomfortable, almost like a voyeur, he sank onto the sofa, propped her book stiffly on his chest, and began to read. After a while he put up his feet, settled back, and read some more.
After that, he kept on reading, chuckling once or twice.
Outside, clouds gathered above Russian Hill, and the sky slid from azure into lavender. Lights shimmered to life atop the Golden Gate Bridge, while out in the bay freighters from Shanghai and Singapore steamed through the first indigo mist of evening.
Book in hand, Jack didn’t notice.
Harris Rains was frightened.
He hunched away from the light, dialing quickly inside the grimy phone booth. Every movement made him wince, and fresh blood spilled from the piece of gauze he’d wrapped around his throbbing wrist.
The explosion in the galley had been a gamble, but it had worked. Fortunately, when he’d used the distraction to slip on deck and jump into the water, he’d been only a quarter-mile from shore.
Instead of heading inland from there, he’d climbed a wall and taken cover inside a Coast Guard supply depot. Lemka’s goons hadn’t dared check the area closely and had lumbered off, arguing noisily.
Standing in the darkness, Harris listened to the phone ringing. He counted thirty rings before he finally hung up. Where was Candace? She hadn’t said anything about leaving for a vacation or a climbing trip, damn it. Not that she and her straggly friends ever planned anything in advance.
A cold drizzle began to fall.
Down the street, a dog barked restlessly, and Rains stiffened as a police car rounded the corner. Dropping the phone, he plunged blindly into the gloom.
Hot Pursuit Page 20
