Indiscreet

by Alison Kent

  “Then what do you call your attitude?” she retorted. “You’ve been pissy about it ever since I told you I’d agreed to give her a hand.”

  Eric’s towel went back over his shoulder none too gently. His face took on an equally testy expression, and he kept his voice low. “It’s like I told you then. I would’ve appreciated you checking with me before you committed to bailing out Poe.”

  Chloe felt anger stir beneath her incredulity. “Since when do I need your permission to help out one of my girlfriends?”

  “Hell, Chloe. I never said you needed my permission.” He leaned closer, lowered his voice, but kept the heavy-duty tone. “But we’re a couple. And basic courtesy says we okay things with one another just in case.”

  “Come on now, sugar. We’ve been together long enough for you to know that Miss Manners is not my middle name.” And that was it. She was out of here. She closed out her spreadsheet program and slammed shut her laptop.

  He hadn’t said anything that would’ve pissed her off ordinarily, but nothing she’d been feeling lately was ordinary in the least. And so it took less than nothing to light her fuse. She bit off the foulest words she knew.

  Eric grabbed her by the wrist, tightly enough to force her to look up. “I had plans, Chloe. For us.”

  Easy for him to claim after the fact. “Would’ve been nice of you to share. Or have the basic courtesy to okay them with me. Just in case.”

  “Surprise plans.” He released her, reached again for his towel as if needing to keep his hands busy. “But I guess they’ll just have to wait, won’t they?”

  Yeah, they would. Same as the apology she wasn’t quite ready to make. She would’ve made it, she really would have, if the idea hadn’t left her feeling too exposed, too totally…vulnerable and raw.

  She tucked her laptop into her computer case, situating dislodged CDs, a printer cable and the power supply. She took her time, knowing the case was in need of her attention even less than Eric needed to dry his hands.

  How in the hell had they let themselves sink this low?

  Finally, she looked up, calling on years of spine-stiffening techniques to keep her shoulders back and her chin high. “I suppose you’re right. Surprise or not, they’ll have to wait.”

  Eric gave a tired sigh and shake of his head. “I might as well let Tim have New Year’s Eve off, since I won’t be needing it, after all.”

  “What? You’d scheduled the thirty-first off? New Year’s Eve?” Oh, God. That much he could’ve told her. She’d had no idea. “I thought with the crowd you’re expecting you’d want to be here.”

  “There’s a reason I pay Tim what I do,” Eric said softly. “But, yeah. I should’ve known better than to try to surprise you. Especially since you’ve been so busy lately.”

  “Me, busy? What about you?”

  “Overcompensating, I guess. I can pull a late shift here and save on staff overtime instead of watching TV at home alone.”

  Now, of course, she felt even worse, felt her bottom lip tremble and her eyes fill with tears she wouldn’t be able to blame on any pretzel. If she’d been busy, it simply had been to keep her mind off losing him.

  She reached out a hand, and he took it, pulling her closer and kissing the backs of her fingers. “I ruined everything, didn’t I? I’m sorry,” she murmured.

  “No, princess. You didn’t ruin anything.” He smiled at her in that way that caused her heart to tumble, her knees to shake, her anger to seem wholly unjustified. “I tell you what. I’ll take New Year’s Eve off anyway. Maybe you could use another bartender?”

  “Oh, Eric.” The apology she’d tried to swallow earlier choked her again. She nodded rapidly, wondering if any other man could be so wonderful. “I really could. We’re going to be cutting it close as is.”

  “Then that’s the plan.”

  “Yo, barkeep!” called a voice from down the bar. “How about you make time with the lady later and get me a beer?”

  When Eric rolled his eyes, Chloe opened her mouth to put the bastard in his place. Eric saw her intent and leaned across the bar, shutting her up with a quick, scorching kiss. “That’s Big Bert. I spiked a volleyball onto his head during a game this summer, and he hasn’t quit harassing me yet.”

  Oh, gawd, when was the last time he’d given her such a kiss? “Big Bert? As in—”

  “Tall, beefy and bleached blond hair that sticks out like a headful of feathers.”

  “Now, that’s funny,” she said, and laughed, feeling the first tentative easing of the heaviness that for so long had weighed down her heart.

  Eric backed a step away. “Lemme take care of Bert. But we’re on for New Year’s Eve, okay?”

  She nodded. It had been hard to let herself fall in love with this man, yet he was so very easy to love. She sighed, praying that maybe they’d just taken the first step back to where they’d been, and hoping the rest of the trip would be free of detours.

  ONE THING PATRICK WOULD never again take for granted was the value of being connected in a city the size of Houston.

  Being Ray’s brother, and Ray being engaged to Sydney, and Sydney being Nolan Ford’s daughter, and Nolan being one of the city’s major money men meant that arranging an interview with the executive chef at Tony’s Restaurant without a single cooking class under his belt was a piece of cake.

  No, a piece of a triple-chocolate tart with a cognac crème anglaise. Yeah. That had impressed the hell out of everyone from the manager to the maître d’. And he hadn’t done so badly showing off his seared sea bass and bay scallops with garlic sake sauce, either.

  He was definitely feeling more positive about his future than he had since graduation. A degree in business administration. What the hell had he been thinking studying a subject that bored him to tears?

  He’d aced it, but had never felt the least bit of interest or excitement the way he did when deciding between mango-grilled chicken or broiled snapper and plantains when cooking with Soledad.

  Heading to the far end of Tony’s parking lot and his El Camino, which seemed to have muscled its way into this moneyed neighborhood, Patrick laughed. He actually laughed. Out loud. Laughed, and liked the feeling of his abs contracting as he did. Life was looking good.

  Things with Ray were getting better. Their relationship wasn’t what Patrick would consider one hundred percent, but they were rediscovering more of the easy camaraderie that had always been a part of their brotherly bond. And if this job panned out, Patrick would feel a lot more legitimate than he’d felt in a while.

  It wasn’t about the money; Patrick had his future sister-in-law to thank for his good fortune in the hard cash department. Though Sydney and Ray weren’t yet married, her father had done what he could to put Ray’s mind at ease by financing a search effort to locate Patrick. So between the reward put up by Nolan Ford’s venture capitalist firm and the bounty the FBI had put on Russell Dega’s gang—both of which should’ve gone to Soledad—Patrick was doing okay. He’d saved most of that bundle, except for what he’d plunked down on the El Camino. And what he’d used to buy Annabel at the bachelorette auction.

  He opened the car door, slid into the seat and shoved the keys into the ignition. But he didn’t start the car right away. He thought, instead, about how much of his current state of mind he owed to the last eight weeks of her company.

  He wondered, not for the first time, how truly difficult it was going to be to let her go. Not because he’d grown to depend on her strength to keep him on the straight and narrow, but simply because he’d miss her.

  The things he felt for her were so different than what he’d felt with Soledad. That relationship had been about dependence and survival, and separating the two was one thing he’d never been able to do.

  But with Annabel—

  Slam! Whoa! Patrick jumped, jerked his head to the right and wrenched his body away from the door. An eternity of seconds blinked by as he took in the walking cane wedged to his door, the hand at the other end, the c
ar blocking his El Camino from behind and the face of Russell Dega.

  A face Patrick had last seen twisted with fury and vowing revenge.

  Instead of the long hair Dega had always tied with a bandanna, he now wore bronzed streaks in a spiky cut that was colored dark brown. A goatee and mustache hid the scar bisecting his chin, black slacks and a black turtleneck hid the others. But the Euro-trash look did nothing to civilize the murderous glint in his black eyes.

  “Mr. Coffey.” Dega smiled without emotion. “It’s good to see you again.”

  Patrick felt his teeth on the verge of grinding to dust. His heart lodged like a fat wad of unchewed food in his throat. “Can’t say I share the sentiment, Russ.”

  Dega laughed, still with no feeling. “No, I’m sure you don’t. But then the last time we saw one another, you were making off with information I needed, while I was getting shot. I would’ve been in touch sooner—” he gave a carelessly deceptive shrug “—but bullet wounds take time to heal. And then there was the matter of letting the heat die down.”

  Patrick didn’t say a word, but cast a quick glance to his right and the mirror there, back to his rearview, moving his hands from the steering wheel to his lap. The bulk of the knife in his pocket settled into his palm—

  “Hands where I can see them.” Dega punctuated his order with three sharp raps of his cane on the car door. “Who knows what tricks you have up your sleeves, and I’d hate to have to kill you before getting what I’ve come for.”

  His heart beating all the way to his eyeballs, Patrick stared through the windshield at the flames licking over the hood of the El Camino, though what he really saw was Soledad facing the business end of Dega’s semi-automatic.

  “I don’t have shit that belongs to you.” He growled out the words.

  “So you say now.” The other man again tapped his cane. “Maybe I should ask that hot piece of ass you’ve been busy sticking it to.”

  Son of a bitch!

  Patrick went for the door handle. Dega stumbled; Patrick took advantage. He dug into his pocket for the knife. He had one foot out the door and on the ground when Dega came back, kicking the door closed on his shin.

  Patrick bit down on a howl. He sat still, refused to release Dega’s gaze. The knife-blade pain in his leg had his eyes stinging, but his mouth worked just fine. “You touch her, I own your sorry ass.”

  Dega pushed harder on the car door. “You give me what I want, you’ll never see me again.”

  “I couldn’t get that lucky.” Blood welled where his skin had broken, and began to trickle inside his boot to the cuff of his sock.

  “You’re out of luck, Mr. Coffey. I know what Soledad gave you.” Dega bounced the car door with his cane. “She told me just before I shot—”

  Motherfu— Patrick lunged, but Dega had the leverage and full use of his limbs. This time he threw the weight of his body and the force of his good hip at the door.

  The bone snapped. God-freaking-damn. Patrick pushed out a panting grunt, ready to puke up his guts. His eyes rolled back; sweat ran from temple to jawline, from his nape to the crack of his ass. His teeth crunched together. “You asshole.”

  “Payback, Mr. Coffey. We can get together at a future date and compare the condition of our limps.” Dega pushed away from the car, the motion grinding bone edge on bone edge.

  Patrick bit down on his tongue until the pressure finally lessened. He breathed, breathed, found what he could of his voice and said, “The only future date we have will be a threesome. You, me and the needle in your arm delivering a dose of potassium chloride.”

  Dega tossed back his head and laughed. “And here I assumed you’d want to shoot me yourself. Finish the job your federales botched so badly. Soledad never did show you the safe room under the house, did she?”

  Patrick could only groan.

  “It was tough to tunnel into, even before being shot all to hell. And it was obviously impossible to find, or I wouldn’t be standing here now. A generator, medical supplies, enough food to last several weeks. Not exactly paradise, but close.”

  He’d never even left the island. The bastard had been there all that time. “You’d better watch your back, Russ.”

  “I certainly will, Mr. Coffey. I certainly will.” Dega bounced the door on Patrick’s leg, which had gone blessedly numb. “But most of the time I’ll be watching that beautiful back belonging to Miss Annabel Lee.”

  Patrick forced his eyes open, his gaze back to Dega’s. “I told you—”

  “And I told you.” Dega leaned in with a growl. “I want the information Soledad gave you….” He let the rest of whatever he was going to say trail off, glancing up as a police cruiser rolled through the parking lot one row over. “Hands on the steering wheel, Mr. Coffey.”

  “You can’t run that fast, Russ,” Patrick said, gauging time, distance and pain factors should Dega bolt. The cop couldn’t be that far away—

  “I don’t need to run.”

  Patrick turned to find the foot of the cane inches from his face. The cane was hollow and nicely outfitted with a gun barrel now aimed straight at his Adam’s apple.

  Dega’s thumb hovered over the single button in the dog’s-head handle. “In fact, I’m quite sure you’ll agree that I have nothing to run from.”

  “You must not want that info too badly if you’re willing to wipe out your only chance for retrieval.”

  Dega’s expression grew confidently smug. “I always thought you were a reasonable man, Mr. Coffey.”

  “Sure. I’m reasonable.” He was also teetering madly at the edge of consciousness. “Just make sure you’ve got me chained to a tree trunk or caught in a car door and you’ll get your way, no problem.”

  “Where is it?”

  “In a safe place.”

  “Of course. Where?”

  Patrick shook his head, sliding his far hand from the steering wheel to the bench, and praying like hell he could pull off this bluff. “Not here.”

  “Of course not,” Dega said, his attention divided between Patrick and the police cruiser now slowing behind the El Camino blocked in by Dega’s car.

  Patrick kept his eyes on Dega’s face. “He’s running your plates, Russ. You’d better hope you have your paperwork in order.”

  “The beauty of rental cars and the best documentation money can buy. He’ll discover nothing more than what I want him to know.”

  “And what would that be?” Patrick’s hand had reached his pocket.

  “I said keep your hands where I can see them. On the steering wheel. Now,” Dega said with a snarl. At the same time he raised his free hand to signal to the officer that he was on his way to move his illegally parked car. The cruiser drove on.

  “Temper, temper, Russ.” Patrick didn’t keep his hand where it was at all, but moved it closer toward his pocket. “You can hardly fire that thing—”

  Dega fired. The bullet ripped into the passenger seat with barely more than a thwup. Patrick swallowed hard. The throbbing in his leg was nothing compared to the explosive pounding of his heart. He swore his ribs had cracked. “Damn. And I just bought this car.”

  “Then I’m sure you’d like to remain alive to enjoy it.” Dega returned the foot of the cane to the ground. “I’ll be in touch to arrange the return of my information. Before I walk away, however, I’d like you to take note of the landscaping van parked at the rear of the lot.”

  Patrick glanced into his rearview mirror and saw the back end of a white panel van. “You mowing lawns these days?”

  “If I have any trouble making it to my car or getting out of the parking lot, my associate will be on his way to visit your Miss Lee.”

  “You bastard.” Patrick spat out the words and moved his hands to ten and two on the steering wheel. He imagined sinking the knife blade deep into the other man’s belly, but nothing was worth chancing Annabel’s life. “Get the hell out of my sight.”

  “As you wish.” Dega bowed mockingly. “Until we next meet.”

/>   Patrick watched the other man’s retreat in his side mirror, and only when the luxury rental eased away did he push his own door open. The fire in his leg roared to life. He used both hands to lift his knee and settle his foot on the floorboard at an angle that took the pressure off his shin.

  Then he dug for the phone at his waistband, leaning back his head and closing his eyes as he waited for an answer.

  “Ray Coffey.”

  “It’s Patrick. I need help.”

  ANNABEL PACED THE LENGTH of her bedroom, back and forth, back and forth, as Joseph Baron, an EMT assigned to the same fire station as Ray, tended to Patrick.

  Ray simply stood at the head of the bed. Blood pressure, temperature, pulse, pillows and pain meds. So thorough and competent. So cool and detached and brilliantly able to cope—while Annabel remained totally helpless.

  She also remained frightened, and so she wrapped her arms even tighter over her middle as she paced. A ridiculous endeavor, as holding herself did nothing to contain the sharp spiraling pulse of fear in her chest.

  Patrick had suffered a fractured tibia. A compound fracture, yes. But his injuries could’ve been so much worse. He could have lost his life.

  And she could’ve lost him.

  The three men had arrived from the hospital only thirty minutes ago, after five hours spent in emergency. Patrick had refused to stay overnight and had signed himself out, demanding his brother bring him back to the loft. Ray had, but not without objection. He’d wanted to take him to his house, at which point Patrick had threatened to walk.

  Annabel hadn’t known a thing about his encounter with Dega or the hospital visit until way too long after the fact.

  She paced even faster.

  “Annabel.”

  At Patrick’s one-word plea, she stopped, glanced over to see Baron packing his medic kit and Ray staring down at his brother’s elevated leg.

  “What?” she snapped, because she had no idea how she was supposed to react. Guilt set in immediately, a reaction so unfamiliar that she tightened her grip on her arms. “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice calmer, her stomach still churning. “Do you need another blanket? More water?”