Ryland was old-fashioned that way. Beauty treatments were for women. Period.
A man earned respect through power and money. Unless referring to his wife or girlfriend, pretty didn’t enter into the masculine equation for success.
“How was your evening?” He buzzed her smooth cheek with his lips, careful not to muss her still-perfect makeup. After decades of marriage, he’d never seen her without her “face” on, as she referred to her morning beauty routine. It pleased him that she cared to make herself attractive for him and that even now she was still willing in the bedroom.
“We had a lovely time.”
“The show?”
Marlene had attended a concert at a rival casino.
She shrugged. “Disappointing. We left early and had more wine instead.”
That explained the sparkle in her eyes.
He eyed her shapely calves. Maybe tonight…
Marlene caught his look. Was that a frown?
Ryland shifted closer. “What’s wrong?”
She pulled back. Coy? Marlene liked to play games. She kept him on his toes. “Nothing.”
“Would you like a nightcap?”
Marlene crossed her legs. Her skirt rose on her thigh. “Yes, please.”
She was going to make him work for it. As usual. Ryland got up and crossed the hardwood to the bar in the corner. He refreshed his scotch and mixed Marlene a martini. One thing about his wife, she had never been “easy.” Her philosophy was that when a man worked for something, he appreciated it more.
Ryland gave her credit. Her methods worked. Young women could take lessons in catching and keeping a man from his wife. He’d strayed over the years, but he always came back. He handed her the martini, and she sipped delicately and licked her lips.
Ryland’s cell phone vibrated in his pocket.
His wife raised a now? eyebrow.
“I’ll turn it off.” Ryland pulled the phone out. His thumb went to the OFF button. A number popped onto the screen, and the call went to voicemail. He froze.
“I’m sorry. I have to make a call.” He stood.
Marlene’s eyes sparked with anger. “Work will be the end of you. At your age, you should be relaxing, not working until you drop.”
At his age?
Well, didn’t that take the wind out of his metaphorical sails. His erection deflated like a punctured bike tire.
A whoops look crossed her face. She knew that insinuating that he was too old to take care of business was one step over the line. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. I simply want you to enjoy the life you worked so hard to create.”
“It’s quite all right, my dear.” He patted her thigh. “I’m not as young as I used to be. Perhaps you’re right. I should be easing back on my responsibilities.”
As Ryland walked out of the living room, in the corner of his eye, he saw his wife toss her martini back.
He was going to have to face facts. He was old. And his new plan did include passing the family business down to his sons. After he’d cleaned up the last few entrails, of course.
He went back into his study, closed the door behind him, and pressed CALL BACK.
Tension gripped his muscles as the ring sounded in his ear. This call followed Kenneth’s too closely for it to be a coincidence.
Abby left the rental car in the parking garage attached to the casino. The cold damp was welcome. Despite the triple espresso and chocolate, her head was fuzzy and her eyes sticky with exhaustion. But then it was two a.m. Not that you could tell from the casino, designed to camouflage the time of day. Were there any windows on the casino level? Probably not. Management wanted people inside, with the clanging bells and flashing lights urging them to lay down their chips. Views of a pretty beach would draw customers away from the tables. Casinos wanted people inside, handing over their money on the pie-in-the-sky chance of hitting it big—something that wasn’t going to happen. The odds were always with the house.
She walked past the opening to the gaming floor. For a winter night, business was good, but weekends were usually busy. Even in the off-season, people within driving distance sought Atlantic City as a weekend getaway. Take in a show, have a nice dinner, gamble, and then maybe spend the following afternoon shopping the outlet stores.
She turned down a wide hallway and passed a bank of silver-fronted elevators. She emerged into the hotel lobby. Black marble floors gleamed. Overhead, chandeliers sparkled. At this hour, the view out the glass doors was all dark night and bright lights. In the morning, the landscape couldn’t hide under the cover of darkness. Under her glitz and glamour makeup of shiny surfaces and bright lights, Atlantic City was an expensive whore, ready and willing to take your money for a wild ride and give you the boot when your wallet was empty.
Abby’s boots clicked on the marble as she went straight to the concierge desk. The African American man behind the counter was dressed in a black suit and impeccably starched white shirt. All part of the classy image the casino was trying to project. “May I help you?”
“Abigail Foster. I’m here to see Mr. Valentine. He’s expecting me.” Abby was suddenly aware of her own ragged appearance. With the stress and rattled nerves of the evening, her jeans and turtleneck had passed fresh hours ago. Appearances were valued by some people. Ryland Valentine was one of them. A more put-together look would have served her well for this meeting.
But it was too late now. She’d passed the jumping-off point when she’d made that call from the car.
“Yes, Miss Foster.” The concierge turned and called over his shoulder, “Randolph?”
A large, hard-looking man stepped out of a doorway behind the counter. The bulge under his jacket and the earpiece looped over one ear identified him as security. “This way, Miss Foster.”
Abby followed his hand gesture to a hallway off the opposite side of the lobby. He walked a step behind her and to her right. They stopped in front of a private elevator. A swipe of his card key opened the doors. He waited for Abby to board first. She stood to the side, as far away from him as she could get in the small space. He swiped his card again and pressed the very last button. The car shot upward with a smooth launch and glided to a stop ten seconds later. Abby’s stomach kept dropping for a few more nauseating seconds.
As the doors slid open, fresh sweat damped Abby’s lower back. What had she done?
Ethan turned his truck into the parking garage of the Valentine Casino. He’d pushed his pickup hard all the way down the Atlantic City Expressway to catch up with Abby. He popped a handful of antacids into his mouth and chewed. The extra bold venti, and Abby’s inability to trust him, burned all the way up his esophagus.
With a fist to his on-fire solar plexus, he watched her park her rental car two aisles over. Laughing and talking, a trio of middle-aged women crossed in front of his pickup, their voices echoing in the concrete structure. Abby got out and walked toward the casino elevators with purposeful strides. She knew where she was going, he realized with another stab to his pride.
It was no coincidence that she’d headed for Atlantic City, where Joe Torres lived. She knew a lot more than she’d told Ethan.
He followed at a discreet distance. Fortunately, he’d changed out of his uniform before chasing after her. His jeans and boots blended with the varied dress of the casino’s patrons. He waited outside the elevator until her car stopped on the lobby floor. Then he jumped in the next one that opened. On the main floor, he spotted her at the end of the long hallway that led to the hotel registration desk. Stopping on the other side of the lobby, he peered through a tall potted fern.
Abby was talking to the concierge. Ethan drew back when the security goon escorted her down a private hallway behind the desk. How the hell was Ethan going to follow her?
Three young couples in cocktail attire walked from the direction of the gaming
floor and crossed the lobby. A slender brunette stopped, put a hand on her man’s shoulder, and slipped off her sky-high heels. The relief that relaxed her face was close to orgasmic. Hooking two fingers in the skinny straps, she padded barefoot to the elevator banks.
Ethan skirted the lobby and studied a display of brochures next to the concierge desk. Picking up a pamphlet on the historic town of Smithville, he glanced casually down the private hall. The goon card-swiped a key slot and escorted Abby onto an elevator.
Damn. How would he follow her?
“Excuse me, sir.”
Ethan turned. The two guys standing behind him were twin mountains of brawn. Ethan eyed bulges under their jackets. Armed mountains of brawn. The little earpieces with the wires down the sleeves indicated they were part of the staff, whatever that meant. The fact that they were official employees of the casino didn’t give Ethan any warm or fuzzy feelings of security.
“You were following the lady.” Number One had a head the size and shape of a microwave oven. The flat-top buzz didn’t help.
“What lady?” Ethan lied.
Number One took a step back and mumbled something into his wrist. Thing Two didn’t budge.
Number One nodded toward the hall behind the counter. “Please come with us, sir.” Despite the “please” and “sir,” it wasn’t a request.
Ethan was tempted to show his badge and talk his way out of the situation, but he held his tongue. If he were lucky, these guys would lead him to Abby.
Number Two led the way. At the end of the narrow hall, he swiped their way onto the same elevator that had transported Abby. Ethan got on without being told. Though hardly small, standing between his linebacker escorts, Ethan felt like the water boy.
The elevator climbed to the top floor. Whoever Abby was meeting was a VIP. The doors opened with barely a swish of the rubber seals.
Number One nudged Ethan’s shoulder. He stepped off the elevator. His shoes sunk into ocean-deep pile carpeting. Valentine Entertainment Group was written in gold letters on the facing wall. Except for the landing, the floor was dark. Guess the execs didn’t work 24-7. They went through a set of glass doors and turned right. From an office at the end of a hall, a light beckoned.
This was going to get interesting.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Abby’s footsteps were silent on the plush carpet. The entire first floor of her house would fit in Ryland Valentine’s penthouse office. Everything was clean-lined and luxurious. It was the kind of space that politely whispered money rather than screamed it. She’d only been here once. The other times she and Ryland had met, he’d come to her.
Ryland’s expansive mahogany desk sat on a raised platform that was more throne than workspace. He stood as she entered. He was thinner than the last time she’d seen him. The small paunch was gone. He was paler too, his hair fading from elegant silver to white. Though an inch or two over six feet tall, the slight stoop he’d acquired made him seem shorter. Age was catching up to him. No one, not even the powerful head of Valentine Entertainment Group, could outrun time.
“My dear.” Ryland rounded his desk and held both of his hands out to her. Over a sad smile, his eyes shone with a mixture of heartache and regret, the two emotions she most associated with him. She didn’t run to him with open arms. They hadn’t parted on the best of terms.
His face sagged with displeasure at her rebuff. “Thank you, Randolph. You may leave us.”
Randolph gave Abby a doubtful glance, but Ryland nodded. The security guard closed the door as he exited.
Abby glanced away from Ryland. Behind him, a wall of glass overlooked the Atlantic Ocean. The forecasted storm hadn’t arrived yet, but heavy white chop on the dark water told her nasty weather was blowing up the coast.
She blinked away from the mesmerizing seascape.
He walked to her side. “Let me get you a drink. Wine?”
She sidestepped out of reach. “Just water, please.”
Her head was already foggy. Too much espresso instead of food and sleep.
Without touching her, he herded her toward the other side of the room, where a long, low sofa and two boxy chairs formed a conversation area. “You look tired. Have you eaten?”
“No, but I’m not hungry.” The muscles of her thighs trembled. Anxiety or exhaustion? Both, she decided, plus the jitters from her caffeine overload.
“Well, I am.” Ryland steered her toward the couch. He picked up a phone from an end table and murmured instructions into the receiver.
As she sank into the black leather, blood rushed in her ears and drowned out the sound of Ryland’s voice. What was she doing here? Saving Derek and his mother, she hoped. But at what cost? It felt like she was offering herself up on a silver platter. Perhaps she should have ordered an apple for her mouth.
Ryland went to a sideboard and poured water from a carafe into a crystal tumbler. He handed it to her and sat on the sofa next to her. He leaned forward, forearms on his knees, fingers intertwined, studying her.
“What’s going on, Ryland?”
He turned slightly until he was partially facing her. “What do you mean?”
“Someone is out to get me.”
“That sounds paranoid.”
“It isn’t paranoid if it’s true.”
“You make a good point.” Ryland leaned back. His expression turned pensive. He was deciding how much to tell her.
Anger burned through Abby’s exhaustion. His all-powerful, controlling attitude always ticked her off. Reining in her temper, she waited. She’d learned one thing from Ryland. Silence was a powerful negotiating tool.
“I know about the recent attempts on your life. Honestly, I don’t know why you are being targeted. But I am looking into the matter as we speak.”
“Do you know who is trying to hurt me?”
“No.” A slight shift in his eyes gave him away. Oh yeah. He definitely knew more than he was willing to say.
“But you have suspicions?”
“Maybe.” Ryland got up and walked to the bar. He poured himself a short glass of scotch and returned to his seat. Buying time, no doubt, while he carefully phrased his thoughts. “I am in the process of ceasing my activity in a certain trade. My business associates are unhappy with my decision.”
Ryland was the master of vaguely specific statements.
Abby sat up straighter. “You’re going straight?”
“As an arrow, as the saying goes.” Ryland’s mouth flattened in a tight smile. “I’ve been moving in that direction for several years.”
“How many years?”
“A little over three.”
So he’d started backing off the illegal operations right before…oh my God. The truth was a metaphorical smack to the back of Abby’s head. “Right before I was kidnapped.”
“Yes.”
“Do you think it was related?” Abby’s mind whirled. “Do you think Faulkner was hired by one of your partners? It would explain why he never took the stand.”
Ryland scratched his chin. “I don’t think so. No one ever claimed responsibility, made threats, or contacted me with ransom terms. Messages not delivered aren’t very effective as methods of persuasion.”
“So you didn’t think it was about you.”
“Three years ago, I couldn’t see how your kidnapping could’ve been related to my business.” Ryland sipped his scotch. “Though it’s possible Faulkner was supposed to deliver the message and didn’t follow through. Still, if one of my enemies was behind your capture, the ball Faulkner dropped would’ve been picked up and carried by someone else.”
A knock sounded on the door.
“Come in,” Ryland commanded.
A waiter in a black suit carried a tray. He set it on the table and removed the silver domes from dishes of cheese, crackers, and fruit. A plate of finger sandwiches,
a pot of coffee, and a bottle of red wine rounded out the snack.
Ryland waited for the server to exit. Then he waved at the food. “Please eat something. You’re exhausted. You’ll be able to think clearer with food in your body.”
He was right. Abby reached for a slice of cheese.
Ryland’s intercom buzzed. He picked up the phone. Scowling, his gaze snapped to Abby’s face.
“Bring him in.” Anger radiated from his eyes as he got to his feet. “You shouldn’t have.”
Abby’s mouth went dry. The nibble of aged cheddar turned to dust. With effort, she swallowed and set the rest of the cheese on a cocktail napkin.
The office doors opened. Flanked by two extra-large security guards, Ethan walked in. His gaze moved from Abby to Ryland and back again.
Bitterness tightened Ethan’s features as he stared down at her. “Was it all a lie?”
Tiny ice pellets pinged off Derek’s face. Heaving his backpack over the sill, he climbed out the first-story window onto the roof. Nothing terrible had happened at the foster house yet, but the time to leave was now. Once somebody—or worse, two somebodies—had a good hold on another kid, it was damned hard to get away.
There were three other kids staying here. One was little, but the other two were about Derek’s age. He knew better than anyone that age wasn’t a good indicator of innocence.
He’d thought Ethan was different, but the cop had turned him in, which proved that Derek really couldn’t trust anyone. Except maybe Abby. She’d been as shocked and pissed off as Derek at the cop’s betrayal.
But Abby couldn’t help him now. She had enough of her own troubles. Joe had tried to kill her—twice—and Derek’s mom had made it possible. It was partially Derek’s fault. He should have called the cops on Joe when he saw the chemicals and equipment in the basement. He’d thought Joe was making meth, but the reality was so much worse. As usual, Derek had been a big coward. And look what he’d gotten for being a chicken. He’d ended up in foster care anyway.
She Can Hide (She Can Series) Page 21
