by Nora Roberts
“Christ knows how she’d get through now.” He scanned the bridge. Behind the barricades people swarmed and jockeyed for a better view. The local authorities had cooperated by closing the bridge to vehicular traffic for the hour Luke required from setup to completion. But that hadn’t stopped the crowds. They’d streamed onto the bridge from both sides to press up against the barricades.
Luke wondered idly how many pockets would be picked over the lake that afternoon. He was always willing to lend a hand to an associate.
Where the hell was Roxanne?
He shaded his eyes against the brilliant glare of sun and gave the New Orleans side of the bridge one last look.
Lily was right, he told himself. He had to concentrate on the job at hand. Roxanne would get there when she got there.
At this height over the water, the wind was stiff. He’d factored that in, but he accepted that nature could often play capricious tricks with calculations. That wind was going to batter the living hell out of him.
“Let’s do it.”
He stepped to his mark. Instantly the crowd began to clap and call out encouragements. The cameras focused. After some delicate diplomacy, it had been decided that Lily would hype the escape rather than Max. She took her mike and, looking splashy in a red jumpsuit, held up a hand for silence.
“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. Today, you’re privileged to witness one of the most daring escapes ever attempted. The Burning Rope.”
She continued, explaining exactly what would happen and introducing the two police officers, one from New Orleans, one from Lafayette, who examined the shackles and straitjacket Luke would use.
Once Luke’s arms were in position, Lafayette cuffed one wrist, looped the chain through and secured the other. The key was held by Miss Louisiana, who’d come to the event decked out in full evening gear and tiara. New Orleans fit the restraint in place.
The rope was tied around Luke’s ankles by the current calf-roping champion of the National Rodeo. There was a drumroll, courtesy of the Drum and Bugle Corps of a local high school.
Luke was lowered face first toward the waters of Lake Pontchartrain. Someone in the crowd screamed. Luke blessed them for their timing. There was nothing like a touch of hysteria or a couple of good faints to add to the drama.
A sharp gust of wind slapped his face hard enough to make his eyes water. His body twisted and swayed. He was already working on the cuffs.
He felt the tug when the rope played out. He had five seconds before a volunteer torched the end of the rope and sent the fire crawling toward him. He had to fight a surprising flood of vertigo when the wind cupped him in a playful hand and sent him spinning.
Fucking physics, he thought. A body in motion remains in motion, and he was trapped in a wide pendulum swing that thrilled and delighted the crowd, but made his job that much more difficult.
His satisfaction on freeing his hands was short-lived. He could smell the smoke. Slippery as a snake, he wormed his body inside the straitjacket, felt a bright flash of pain in his abused joints. His fingers went busily to work.
His mind was cold with control. Only one thought intruded, punching through the mechanics of the work like a relentless fist.
He would not stay trapped.
He heard the roar from above when the straitjacket plunged toward the water, empty. The rescue boat bobbing on the lake gave a congratulatory blast of its horn. Though he appreciated the sentiment, Luke was aware it was too early to open the champagne.
On a grunt of effort, he folded at the waist, stomach muscles straining as he levered himself up to fight the cowboy’s knots from his legs. He didn’t look at the fire, but he could smell it. It was inches away and sneaking closer.
He didn’t think he’d die from singed feet, but he figured it would be damn uncomfortable. The clock in his mind warned him that he had minutes only before the fire ate through the rope and sent him diving headlong into the lake.
The cowboy had some tricky moves, Luke discovered. He wished he’d taken LeClerc’s advice to slip a knife into his boot. But it was too late for regrets now. He’d manage the knots, or he’d take a swim to cool his hot foot.
He felt the rope give. This final stage took intricate timing. If he released himself too quickly, he’d take a dive. If he waited too long to set up, he’d end his escape with a trip to the burn ward. Neither appealed.
He hooked his hand around the second rope. Misdirection, and the fact that it was thin as wire, had kept the crowd from seeing it. Luke felt the heat from the burning rope smoke his knuckles as he secured his handhold.
He kicked his feet free and began to monkey his way up. From atop the bridge it appeared as though he was climbing on a thin column of fire. Indeed he would require some generous use of LeClerc’s salve for singes and burns.
The crowd held its breath, let it out on a gasp each time the wind caught him. When he reached the top, he felt Mouse’s good, solid grip on his arms. LeClerc bent down, ostensibly to offer a word of congratulations.
“Got him?” he muttered to Mouse.
“Yep.”
“Bien.” LeClerc flicked a knife from his sleeve and severed both ropes.
There were shrieks and shudders when the rope of fire fell into the lake.
“Want to pull me the rest of the way up?” Luke nearly had his breath back. He knew the moment the rush of adrenaline faded, he was going to hurt like a mother. With Mouse’s assistance he gained his feet. The cameras were already closing in, but Luke was scanning the crowd.
“Roxanne?”
“Must’ve gotten tied up,” Mouse said and thumped Luke hard enough on the back to make him stagger. “Your shirt was smoking,” he said mildly and grinned. “That was a neat one, Luke. Maybe we could go to San Francisco and do it on the Golden Gate? Wouldn’t that be great?”
“Sure.” He passed a hand casually through his hair, just to make sure it wasn’t on fire. “Why not?”
Maybe it was stupid, and overly possessive. Maybe it was a lot of unattractive things, but Luke knew only one pertinent fact when he walked into the bedroom, smelling of smoke and triumph, and found Roxanne stretched out on the bed. He was pissed.
“Well, that’s really nice.” He tossed his keys onto the dresser with a clatter that had Roxanne moaning and opening her eyes. “I figured you had to have been in some sort of a life-threatening accident, and here you are, taking a nap.”
She took what she thought was a dreadful risk and opened her mouth to speak. “Luke—”
“I guess it wasn’t any big deal to you, the fact that I’ve been working on this bit for months, that it was probably the biggest thing I’ve ever done or that you promised you’d be there when I got back up.” He stalked to the foot of the bed, scowled briefly, then stalked away. “Just because I needed to concentrate, expected a little support from my woman—”
“Your woman?” That was enough to have her rearing up. “Don’t you toss that phrase at me as though I was tucked somewhere between your silk suit and your record collection.”
“You’re a little higher than my record collection, but obviously my place is a few notches lower.”
“Don’t be such a jerk.”
“Damn it, Rox, you knew this was important to me.”
“I was going to come, but I—” She broke off as her stomach roiled. “Oh, shit.” She scrambled up and dove into the bathroom.
By the time she’d finished retching, Luke was there with a cool, damp cloth and a repentant attitude. “Come on, baby, back to bed.” It seemed her weakened body poured out of his arms and onto the sheets. “I’m sorry, Rox.” Gently he bathed her clammy face. “I came in swinging and didn’t even take a good look at you.”
“How bad do I look?”
“Don’t ask.” He kissed her forehead. “What happened?”
“I thought it was the pancakes.” She kept her eyes closed and her head very still and only opened her mouth wide enough to let the words whisper out. “I wa
s hoping you’d come home green so I’d know it was food poisoning.”
“Sorry.” He smiled and brushed his lips across her brow again. She was clammy, but he didn’t think there was a fever. “I’d say you have one of those twenty-four-hour things.”
If she hadn’t been so weak, she’d have been insulted. “I never get those.”
“You never get anything,” he pointed out. “But when something snags you, it snags big time.” He remembered her chicken pox, the only childhood illness she’d ever succumbed to. That and the bout of seasickness aboard the Yankee Princess were the only times he remembered seeing her down. Until now.
“I just need to rest a little while more. I’ll be fine.”
“Roxanne.” Luke set the cloth aside to take her face in his hands. “You’re not going.”
Her eyes shot open. She tried to sit up, but he held her in place with only the slightest pressure. “Of course I’m going. This whole gig was my idea in the first place. I’m not missing out on the payoff because I ate a bad pancake.”
“It wasn’t the pancakes,” he corrected. “But it doesn’t matter what caused it, you’re sick as a dog.”
“I’m not. I’m a little queasy.”
“You’re in no shape to pull a job.”
“I’m in perfect shape.”
“Fine, we make a deal.” He sat back, eyeing her. “You get up now, walk to the living room and back without falling on your face, and we move forward as planned. You don’t make it, I go alone.”
Because it was a dare, it was irresistible. “All right. Move.”
When he rose, she gritted her teeth and swung her legs out of bed. Her head spun, and fresh, nasty sweat popped out on the back of her neck, but she gained her feet.
“No holding on,” Luke added when she braced a hand against the wall.
That stiffened her spine. She straightened, walked briskly into the living room. And sank into a chair. “I just need a minute.”
“No deal.” He crouched in front of her. “Rox, you know you can’t do it.”
“We could postpone—” She broke off, shaking her head. “No, that would be stupid. I’m being stupid.” Weak, frustrated, she let her head fall back. “I hate missing this one, Callahan.”
“I know.” He picked her up to carry her back to bed. “I guess sometimes things don’t work out exactly the way you want.” He didn’t think it was the time to mention his plans had taken a beating as well. Turning their flush of shared triumph into an evening of romance by asking her to marry him had seemed inspired. Now it would have to wait.
“You don’t know the security system as well as I do.”
“We’ve gone over it a dozen times,” he reminded her, insulted. “It won’t be my first night on the job.”
“It’ll take you longer.”
“Sam and Justine are in Washington. I’ll have the time.”
“Take Mouse.” Sudden panic had her grabbing for his hand. “Don’t go alone.”
“Rox, relax. I could do this in my sleep. You know that.”
“It doesn’t feel right.”
“You don’t feel right,” he corrected. “I want you to get some rest. I’ll call Lily and have her come by to look in on you. Keep a light burning, babe.” He kissed her then, lightly. “I’ll be back before sunrise.”
“Callahan.” She tightened her grip as he eased back. It was foolish, she thought, this awful reluctance to let him go. “I love you.”
He smiled and leaned down to kiss her again, the light, friendly kiss of a man who knew he’d have time for more soon. “I love you, too.”
“Break a leg.” She sighed, and let him go.
Luke loved to fly. From the very first time he’d strapped into the cockpit to take his initial lesson from Mouse, he’d been hooked. It had no longer been a matter of learning a practical skill that could add convenience to both of his careers. It had been, from that soaring beginning, pure delight.
The plane he piloted was registered to a John Carroll Brakeman, a nonexistent insurance executive. To complete the alias, Luke had added a short, trim beard, a three-piece pin-striped suit—with several successful inches of padding beneath it. His black hair was sprinkled with silver at the temples.
When he landed in Tennessee, he logged in, checked his return flight plan and carried his monogrammed briefcase to the spiffy Mercedes 450 he’d rented. He drove it to the Hilton, checked into his reserved suite and left orders not to be disturbed.
Fifteen minutes later, minus the beard, the padding and the silver temples, he hurried down the stairwell to the parking lot. The dark sedan he’d ordered under another alias was waiting. Because it was safer than picking up the keys at the desk, Luke popped the lock, hot-wired the engine and drove serenely away.
Once the job was completed, he would return the sedan to the parking lot and slip back into his room. He would re-don his disguise and check out. Richer by approximately one half a million dollars, he’d fly back to New Orleans. Nothing would connect him with either the alias or the burglary.
A roundabout route, perhaps, but as Max was wont to say, a roundabout route still gets you where you want to go.
Two blocks from Sam’s house, Luke parked the dark, nondescript sedan on a tree-lined street. In this suburban paradise, all the lawns were trimmed, the dogs well behaved and the houses respectably dark at one A.M.
Streetlamps pooled light he easily avoided. Clad in black from head to foot, he slipped between shadows. There was a trace of fog that might give him some problems at the airport. But he felt the mist had been custom-made for him. There was a half-moon, but its light was trapped behind shifting clouds and the air was sweet with hints of spring.
He circled the Wyatt estate, a sprawling two-story brick with white columns that resembled slender bones in the half-light. There was no car in the drive. The security lights beamed like swords over the lawn and picked up pretty banks of golden daffodils and the tender furled leaves of trees still greening. He was almost sorry that Sam was in Washington. It would have added spice to the sweetness of satisfaction to have stolen in and taken what he wanted while his old enemy snored.
A tall privacy fence guarded the house on three sides, and old leafy trees shielded the front. Luke used both as shelter as he approached.
He missed Roxanne severely when he started on the security. The new computerized systems annoyed him, insulted his creativity. He supposed the numbers and complex sequences appealed to Roxanne’s logical mind, but to Luke they took the art of thievery into the ennui of accounting.
Even with her instructions playing in his head, it took him twice as long as it would have taken her to access the code. Still, she didn’t have to know.
Satisfied, he chose the rear entrance and handily picked the lock. He preferred the method to jimmying, which any second-rate B&E man could accomplish, and certainly held it above smashing a pane of glass, which took no skill whatsoever.
Luke stepped into a neat sitting room that smelled of lemon oil and wisteria. The old excitement crept up his spine. There was something indescribably arousing about standing in a dark, empty house, surrounded by the shapes and shadows of another person’s possessions. It was like being told their secrets.
Luke walked silently from the sitting room, turning left in the corridor toward Sam’s office. His fingers were already itching inside the thin, surgical gloves to turn the dial of the safe.
He needed no light. His eyes had had time to adjust, and he knew the square footage of the Wyatt home a great deal better than its owners.
There was a quality of silence to an empty house Luke had always enjoyed. It was a whispering, a humming, an eerily pleasant kind of music the air took on when there was no one inside to breathe it.
He had turned into Sam’s office before it struck him that the music was absent. Then the light flashed on, blinding him.
“Well, Luke, come right on in.” Sam leaned back in his desk chair, causing the leather to creak. “I’ve be
en expecting you. Please.” He gestured, and the light glinted off the chrome of the .32 he held. “Join me for a drink.”
Luke studied Sam’s smile, scanned the smooth surface of the desk where two brandies rested. He imagined it was Napoleon, but doubted its flavor would wash the oily taste of a setup out of his mouth.
“How long have you known?”
“Oh, several months now.” With the gun aimed at Luke’s chest, he leaned forward to cup his snifter. “I’m ashamed to say I didn’t suspect earlier. All this time, I put the Nouvelles’ extravagant life-style down to a little blackmail or some short cons. Sit,” he invited. “I’m so terribly sorry you came alone.”
“I work alone,” Luke said, hoping to salvage at least that much.
“You were always pathetically gallant. Sit,” he repeated, and his voice was as cold as the chrome of the handgun. Gauging his best chance was to play the scene out, Luke sat. “The brandy’s excellent.” Sam set aside his snifter to lift the phone. “Don’t worry,” he said when he noticed the flash in Luke’s narrowed eyes. “I’m not phoning the police. I don’t believe we’ll need them.” He punched a series of buttons, waited. “He’s here. Yes. Use the back door.” He was smiling when he replaced the receiver. “A little surprise. Now what shall we talk about while we wait?”
“You might be able to make breaking and entering stick,” Luke said calmly. “There’s a possibility of attempted burglary. All of which I can probably finesse into a joke. Poor judgment, I could say, trying to pull a fast one on a childhood rival.”
Sam paused a moment as if considering. “I doubt that would work, particularly after I pointed out the pattern. One I admit I didn’t catch on to until recently. You son of a bitch,” he said with the smile still spread over his face. “You sanctimonious bastards—all of you. Acting outraged because I knocked over a couple of shops while you were nothing but petty thieves and grifters yourselves.”
