“Indeed. I had to occupy myself by rifling through your drawers and closet. You have excellent taste in undergarments.”
The twisted old fart pawed her panties? Gross. Now she’d have to throw them all out. Tucked into a far corner clear on the other side of the kitchen, the knives weren’t an option. Her gaze slid around the room. The lamp might work.
Ally dove across the room. A bullet smacked into the wall. She missed the lamp and crashed into the wall half a heartbeat after the bullet. Plaster rained over her and heat bloomed in her cheek.
She slowly turned, heart pounding in her throat, warily eyeing her boss and the little gun in his hand. Former boss.
“Sorry about that, dear, but at least I didn’t hit you. You really should avoid sudden movements.”
Wetness headed south along her cheek and she glanced down. Little droplets of blood landed on her shirt. Mr. Chesterfield might not have shot her, but the plaster had obviously cut her cheek.
“Now, I’m sure the last few weeks have been very difficult for you. Were you terribly frightened?” He sounded more curious than concerned.
Her pulse pounded in her ears. Fury blasted through her so hard and fast black spots danced at the edge of her vision. Careful, deep breaths restored her equilibrium and she focused on the old fart holding a slender gun and his question. “Sometimes.”
“Only sometimes?” He frowned.
She imagined him trying to decide whether to be proud of her fortitude or disapproving at her lack of the proper delicate female constitution. Ally shook her head. This was surreal.
“What are you doing here?”
His sharp, brown eyes narrowed. “You really haven’t figured it out, have you?”
She’d figured out that he was a very nasty man who wished her ill. Mostly, she was trying to buy time until she figured out how to reach her phone. Or a baseball bat. A Taser would be nice. “Figured what out, Mr. Chesterfield?”
“Why, that I’m the one who put out the contract on you, of course.”
The condescension layering his tone rubbed her the wrong way, but she maintained her bimbo act. “Why?”
“A few weeks before you quit, a paper crossed your desk quite by accident. The same day Michael helped you with your overload of cases.”
“What paper…” Belated realization dawned, stealing her breath. “You had Michael killed.”
Chesterfield smiled.
Her stomach bottomed out and thick tension made her cheek throb with each beat of her heart.
“But…how did you know we’d both be at the amusement park that day, let alone that ride?”
“Don’t be silly. I didn’t know. He had instructions to follow Michael and take him out at an opportune moment. Afterward, he was to go to your little town house.” He tilted his head. “Perhaps you should sit down, my dear. You look a little pale.”
Delay, Ally. Think! “Why did you have Michael killed, though?”
He shrugged. “I couldn’t be sure which one of you had seen the paper. So I had no choice, you see.”
“What paper?”
“A paper addressed to an…acquaintance of mine, in regard to getting rid of my annoying wife.”
Oh, freak. She leaned against the wall.
“You really should sit down, before you fall.”
“It’s just a little nick. As you well know, I’ve had much worse. So, you were going to have your wife killed. Ever heard of divorce?”
“Sarcasm is so unattractive in a female. Divorce isn’t an option. The pesky creature holds all the purse strings, you see. I can’t afford it and I’m not willing to give up all her lovely money. I simply don’t care to live with her any longer.”
Oh, God above. He was definitely going to kill her. No way would he tell her all this and walk away. After evading numerous hit men, a sicko pimp and a skilled marksman, she was going to meet her maker in her new home.
Her knees trembled and Ally locked them. Shifting the sandals still in her hand, she tapped her thumb against the wood sole. She tucked her hand behind her and hefted them, testing their weight, eyeing the distance between her and her boss. It was risky. Then again, standing around chatting didn’t seem to be accomplishing much.
“You didn’t even see it, did you?”
Ally blinked. Oh, right. The paper. “I look at hundreds of claims, tons of reports. So no, I don’t have any idea what paper you’re talking about. It must have gotten stuck inside a file or something.”
She frantically tried to remember any out-of-place paper crossing her desk.
A noise reached her, out of place in her home. A soft click. She eyed the dignified lunatic sitting in her chair, but he didn’t seem to notice. Not knowing what the sound meant added to the already palpable tension. Please, please, don’t be Celia. Or if it is, let her go for help.
“I don’t get it, Mr. Chesterfield. A man confessed. No one has come after me for a while now.”
“Yes.” He smiled. “Brilliant, wasn’t it? I paid very well for that distraction while I figured out what to do. I assured him he would be released. Maybe he will. Maybe he won’t. Not my problem. I withdrew the whole hit-for-hire thing.” He waved a casual hand. “It wasn’t working. I decided to wait a bit, until you relaxed your guard and that obnoxious detective went his way. Then I waited some more, but my patience has run out. My wife is driving me up a wall. So, here I am.” He sighed. “Well, I suppose we’d best get on with it, Miss Thompson. No use putting off the inevitable, I always say.” He rose, tall and fit, the picture of refinement.
Ally’s heart rate increased to the approximation of a hummingbird in flight. “Is this necessary, Mr. Chesterfield? Couldn’t we just forget this conversation happened?”
He chuckled. His behavior scared her more than his gun. Who pointed a gun at someone intending to kill them and laughed? The man clearly needed help, the in-depth psychiatric kind, with a straight-jacket and padded room thrown in for good measure. Ally edged toward the kitchen counter and the muzzle of his gun followed her. Another sound reached her, like the scuff of a shoe.
Surely one of Mr. Chesterfield’s guys would just walk in. Could it be Ted? Maybe he’d come by to check on her, like he had during her hospital stay. Or Daniel, though he seemed an unlikely candidate after last night’s disaster.
Greg thought he had his man, so it couldn’t be him. Except, surely the man they had under arrest would have told them by now. Weeks had gone by. So, maybe it was Greg.
“Where would you prefer we do this, Miss Thompson? You’ve always been a good employee, diligent and hard-working. I don’t mind allowing you a choice. Perhaps you’d be more comfortable in your bedroom, lying in your bed?”
She swallowed hard past her dry throat, tracking the gun in his hand, and took a few more little steps to the side. “I just bought the bedding. I’d hate to ruin it with all the blood.”
“The kitchen then? It seems to be your destination at the moment.”
“Uh, sure.” Bile rushed up her throat. He sounded so calm.
Ally crossed from the rug onto the hardwood. She didn’t dare look down the hallway to see if anyone waited there to rescue her.
The heavy iron pan sitting on her stovetop caught her eye, much more appealing than the thin sandal in her hand. Another step took her closer, aware her boss echoed every one of her moves.
He was almost at her kitchen now. Another step and she casually placed the sandals on the island countertop. Her fingers itched to snatch the pan, but she bit hard on her lip to stem the impulse. Slow and easy. Don’t freak out the demented psychopath holding a gun on her.
“Would you like a last moment, my dear? A final prayer, introspection, something of that sort?”
“That would be lovely.” Ally swallowed her anger and struggled to be calm.
From the corner of her eye she swore she saw movement but forced herself to ignore it. Turning sideways to Chesterfield, she slid her lids almost closed and walked her fingertips over the cool granit
e until they touched the handle of the frying pan. Ally angled her body to block his view, wrapping her fingers firmly around the cold handle.
“Would you mind moving closer?” she asked, ever so polite. “I would prefer to die on impact. I’m sure you understand.”
“Of course, my dear. There’s no need for you to suffer.”
He moved into the kitchen, stopped a few feet away and raised his pretty little gun.
Ally’s muscles bunched and, before he had time to level the gun, she swung the heavy pan at his head with all her strength.
A dark shape rushed toward them from the hallway.
Chesterfield glanced to the side, in the direction of the dark shape.
Ally would forever remember the sensation of the cast-iron skillet connecting with his head. The dull, squishy thud. The warm drops raining on her.
Mr. Chesterfield dropped to the floor.
Buzzing started in her ears and numbness settled into her arms and legs, blanketing her emotions as she stared at his wide-open, sightless blue eyes. A dark puddle started beneath his head and slowly spread across her beautiful wide-plank floor.
Nike-shod feet came to stand at the edge of the ever-widening red.
Ally glanced up.
Greg looked up from his contemplation of the man at his feet.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“The mystery man in my jail cell finally admitted the truth. Once I knew he wasn’t our man, I realized you were still in danger. The alarm going off helped.” He rolled his shoulders and tilted his head to the side, as if easing an ache.
“So you rode to the rescue.” Cynicism shot through her. Silly to think he’d come for her. To do what? Throw himself at her feet? Confess his undying love? Yeah, right. That was gonna happen.
Stepping over Chesterfield’s prone legs, Ally set the skillet in the sink and turned the water to its hottest setting. From the side drawer, she retrieved a dishcloth and bottle of soap. Housework cured all ills, right? Willing the rampant trembling to subside, she set to work scrubbing the pan. She stuck the dishcloth under the water to wet it again but yanked her hand back with a gasp. The water was boiling hot.
Greg took her hand. Jerking free, she swung the heavy skillet out of the deep sink and spun to face him. He leapt back.
On any other day, she might have laughed at the wary expression on his face. Soapy washcloth dripping water all over her pristine floors—if one didn’t count the pool of blood, she marched over and dropped the skillet in the garbage can. The burning in her cheek was almost a welcome distraction. Her head felt fuzzy and kinda numb. Ibuprofen, that was what she needed. She started to reach for the bottle of pills on her counter and froze.
A sea of blood separated her from the island. The world spun on its axis.
Greg grabbed her. “Deep breaths.”
Ally allowed herself one sweet, blissful minute to rest against his reassuring strength. She breathed deep, savoring everything about the man she fiercely loved, despite herself. Then she stepped out of his arms. Shoved her emotions deep and faced him.
“If you don’t mind, Detective, I’ll wait in the other room. I’m sure your coworkers will be arriving soon. Please have them search the main floor and outside for Carl. He’s in charge of patrolling the building tonight and I’m concerned that he may be injured.”
Without looking at Chesterfield, she sidestepped Greg, snagged a kitchen towel off her counter to press against her cheek and walked into her living room. She curled up on her little couch. Mind blank, expression stoic.
The rest of the cavalry took forever, but better late than never.
An ambulance carted Ally back to the hospital, where the same doctor who’d operated on her gunshot greeted her. He was not happy to see her. All her powers of persuasion and cajoling were put to work to prevent him from admitting her, and the visit still took hours.
She was finally on her way out of the ER. In the waiting room, Greg read a magazine, lounging in a hard plastic chair. Pain and longing arrowed through her.
She stopped and crossed her arms. “You didn’t have to wait. I can get a cab.”
“No need.” He dropped the magazine on the table and gave her a casual once over as he rose. “I see the doctor is letting you escape. How’d you manage that?”
Irritation flared. “It wasn’t difficult.”
“Might be better for all of us if you were kept under lock and key. I don’t think I can handle any more surprises.”
She drew back, buried the hurt and straightened her aching shoulders. “You know, I believe I will call that cab.”
Not caring enough to wait for a response, she turned and walked away. There were pay phones in the entry.
“Wait.”
She kept walking.
“Damnit, Ally. Wait.”
Rigid, she stopped.
Greg circled to stand in front of her, his mask of lazy, casual carelessness gone. Tired, guilty and frustrated described him to a tee. While she could guess at the first two, she couldn’t imagine why he was frustrated. Nor was she was going to ask.
“I waited for you so I could take you home. Or to a hotel. Wherever you’d like to go. I doubt you want to go back home after what happened.”
“Is there still a mess in my kitchen?”
“No. I had a clean-up crew come in right after the crime scene guys finished. Your kitchen looks as good as new.”
Ally shuddered. Crime scene. Her home had become a crime scene. She squared her chin. It didn’t matter. It was still her home. “Alright then. Let’s go.”
“Home?”
“Yes. Home.” She skirted around him and made a beeline for the sliding exit doors.
“Are you sure you want to be alone tonight? After all that’s happened?”
Un-freakin-believable. Ally glanced at him, her lips twisted in disdain. “I don’t need your pity, Greg. I’m not some mercy-fuck.”
Greg’s jaw muscles twitched, but his mouth remained shut.
She continued out into the parking lot. She no longer cared if he followed. One more second in that hospital would be too long. If she had to walk home, she would.
A few seconds later, Greg appeared at her side. He ushered her to his car, held the passenger door, climbed in, started the car and drove her home—all in stoic silence. Seated in his Camaro, a slide show of memories hit Ally. The car roaring down the alley behind her house, Greg tossing her in, driving to his lakeside cottage.
When they arrived at her building, she bolted from the car. Greg stayed at her elbow all the way to the door. She wouldn’t have thought she’d be able to, but she managed to turn and face him.
“Thank you for the ride.”
“Do you want me to come in with you? Make sure your condo is empty and cleaned up good enough?” His face was impassive. He’d worn the same expression in the precinct. No clue as to whether he actually wanted to come in or not.
“No. That’s okay. I’ll be fine.”
“Ally…” Greg paused and scrubbed a hand over his face. “I don’t know how to do this.”
“What?”
“You and me.”
“There is no you and me, Greg. You’ve told me that often enough.” Pain twisted her heart. Ally shut the door firmly on his inscrutable, stubborn, beautiful face.
Chapter Twenty-Two
A few days later, the pretty wingback chair in the corner of her living room caught Ally’s eye. Yeah, it had to go. Now. She grabbed the side and started dragging. The feet scraped across her shiny hardwood and she winced. The marks would buff out. By the time she got it in the elevator, she was sweating.
The chair was heavy.
The elevator pinged, the door slid open and she tugged the chair out and down the hallway. Pushing open the back door, she shoved the chair through the doorway and it tumbled down the steps. Grabbing the chair again, she dragged it to the center of the back alleyway.
Ally jogged back upstairs, dug through her kitchen dr
awers and raced back outside with a grim smile. Striking a match on the box, she dropped the flame on the middle of the seat cushion. She settled on the back step to watch the show.
The chair went up faster than she’d expected. Flames leapt high and thick, black smoke choked the sky above the building. The heat of the fire warmed her face and the bare skin of her arms.
Before long, sirens wailed. She sighed. Couldn’t a girl burn her chair without raising a ruckus? Weary, she stood and traipsed to the end of the narrow alley. Maybe she could hold them back long enough for the chair to burn down to a mere pile of ash.
A big red engine roared to a stop in front of her, followed by an unmarked police car, two black-and-white police cars and an ambulance. Greg climbed out of the unmarked car and she sighed again. His gaze zeroed-in on her and he bore down on her.
No doubt about it. He was one ticked-off man.
The firefighters rushed past, hauling a long hose into the alley.
“What the hell is going on, Ally?”
Going for nonchalance, she shrugged. “I was enjoying a little bonfire in the privacy of my own…alley.” The excuse sounded better in her head. “I’m not the one who called the fire department.”
“You didn’t have to. I’m sure the neighbors were alarmed by the billowing black smoke.” Was he grinding his teeth? Stubs would be all he had left by the time he turned fifty if he didn’t get that nasty habit under control.
“I’ll admit, I didn’t expect quite so much smoke.” She turned to look at the black cloud rising above the brick buildings. There seemed to be a lot less of it. The firefighters must have gotten the fire out. Pity.
“Ally.” Greg scrubbed a hand over a day’s worth of beard growth. It added to his rugged sexuality and the Surfer Dude appearance he worked so hard to foster. Unlike the bloodshot eyes and the muscle twitching in his jaw. He cleared his throat. “Ally, you can’t light a bonfire in an alley. You’re an intelligent woman. This isn’t news to you.”
Pleased he thought she was intelligent, she smiled. “Well, I suspected it might be a problem. However, I was hoping there wouldn’t be enough smoke to be noticeable.”
Sweet Deception Page 25
