Against the Law (15 page)

“Why don't you call her yourself?”

He took a deep breath. “I don't want her worrying unnecessarily.” And he didn't trust himself.

Calling Lark was exactly what he wanted to do.

Way too much.

He had gotten tangled up with a woman once before. He had damned near married Amy—would have if she hadn't dumped him. He had vowed back then not to let himself get involved with a woman again.

He wasn't about to break that vow. Not now or anytime in the future.

R
emodeling the old brick building on 7th Street that housed the offices of LARK, Inc. had been a major under taking at the time. But the decision had been a good one. The property had gone up in value even in the current uncertain market and provided exactly the kind of atmosphere the partners wanted.

Retail shops leased spaces on the first floor, LARK offices and meeting rooms sat on the second, and the design studio occupied the third floor loft.

The interior space was modern, though the exposed-brick walls gave it charm and a certain warmth, and there were plenty of windows. An entire wall of the design studio held rolls of leather, fabric and gleaming metallic vinyl, along with dozens of other materials that could be used to make the exclusive handbags for which the company was known.

Lark waved at Delilah, who worked over a draft-
ing table sketching some of the new designs they were considering.

Lark grabbed her big leather bag and dug out her car keys. “I've got to get going, but I'll be back in a couple of hours.”

“No worries. It's all under control.”

Everyone was back at work—all of them buzzing with ideas for the upcoming design season. Chrissy wasn't ready for the pressures of nursery school yet. Instead, she came to work with Lark at least two days a week and they all loved her there. She was such a sweet little girl.

“You might want to check,” Delilah warned, “make sure none of those reporters are still lurking around downstairs.”

Lark grimaced. Journalists from a half-dozen tabloids and magazines had been after her for a story.
Us Weekly
had been the most persuasive, pleading for her input and warning they would do the article with or without her participation.

“From a sales standpoint,” Carrie Beth had said, “it's good exposure. The more people are talking about you, the more handbags we sell.”

In the end, thinking of Chrissy, Lark had refused. She continued to hope that in time the interest in the gruesome murders and the little girl who had been the only survivor would die down.

Us Weekly,
as they had warned, wrote the story anyway.

But there hadn't been anyone hanging around for the
past few days and Lark figured some new horror had led the tabloids and magazines in another direction.

She left the building unimpeded and headed for her car, which was parked in the lot today instead of at home in her garage. She usually walked to work but today she had an appointment.

It took a while to get there, weaving her way through traffic to reach her destination—an indoor shooting range in Culver City.

But twenty minutes after her arrival, she was standing in one of the shooting lanes, setting her protective earmuffs over her ears, blocking the sound of gunfire coming from the lane next to hers. Her instructor, Matt Jensen, an older man with gray hair and too many winkles for his age, gave a nod. She picked up the Ruger SR9 semiautomatic pistol that she'd purchased after her third sleepless night in a row.

“All right now, Lark, take your position.”

She steadied herself. Moving to stand with her legs splayed, she raised the weapon in both hands, careful to keep her arms straight, and aimed it at the target, the black-and-white image of a man.

“Begin firing.”

Lark pulled the trigger, felt the recoil and let her arms and body absorb the kick. Firing the weapon was easier today than it had been yesterday or the day before that. Each time she came for a lesson, she grew more confident, less frightened of using the pistol.

For the first few days after she'd gotten back from Arizona, she had tried to tell herself she didn't need a gun for protection. She couldn't keep a pistol with a
child in the house. But from the day she had picked up the weapon after the requisite waiting period, and the gun-safe where she kept it locked up beside her bed, she had been able to sleep.

She lived in L.A., she eventually reasoned. The crime rate was atrocious.

But the real truth was, she couldn't get the brutal slayings out of her head and just knowing she had some way to protect herself and Chrissy against maniacs like the men who had shot the Wellers gave her enormous comfort.

Even more so now that she actually felt competent to use the weapon she had bought.

She emptied the clip, slid it out and snapped another in place as her instructor had taught her, then lowered the pistol and set it back on the counter with the action still locked down.

Matt Jensen smiled. “You're doing really well. Not perfect, but better than eighty percent of the folks who come in here.” He tipped his head at the target rolling toward them from the end of the shooting alley and her gaze went there. “Five out of sixteen in the heart, three in the head. None of the bullets missed the target.”

Lark smiled broadly. “I'm getting better every time I come, thanks to you, Matt.”

He nodded his agreement. “I can teach someone to shoot, but in your case it's easier. You've got a real good eye. You should think about joining a shooting club. In time you could be a damn good marksman.”

“No thanks, Matt. I just want to be able to defend my family.”

He frowned. “What about your husband?”

She held up her left hand, pointed to her ring finger. “No husband.”

“Well, then, you're doing exactly the right thing. You never know, anymore. As the head of the household, you need to be able to protect the people you love.”

She didn't entirely know how she felt about guns, only that she slept better knowing there was one in the gun-safe next to her bed and now she knew how to use it.

She fired the second clip into a fresh, man-shaped target. The results were better than satisfactory, considering how new she was at this. Lark checked the pistol, removed the empty clip, closed the action and slid the weapon into its holster. She took off her protective earmuffs and handed them back to Matt.

“I guess I'll see you next week,” she said. “Same time?”

“You're already down in my schedule.”

She had been coming every day, but Matt thought she'd become proficient enough to cut back to once a week. Eventually, she would come a few times a year, just to maintain. She didn't need to be a sharpshooter, just good enough to hit what she aimed at.

With the unloaded pistol and clips in the carrying case, she put the gun in the trunk of her little Mercedes, slid behind the wheel and drove back to the office. In time, maybe she would get over the past. Maybe she wouldn't feel as if she needed a weapon to protect herself and Chrissy.

Lark thought of the little girl God and Devlin Raines
had helped to save, and Dev's handsome face popped into her head.

Her chest squeezed. At first, she had hoped he would call. But the days slipped past and it was Clive who had phoned to check on her. His wife, Molly, had come by to meet Chrissy and instantly adored her.

But Dev didn't call, and in her heart, Lark knew he wouldn't.

Dev was gone from her life. All she had left were memories of the time they'd spent together.

One thing she knew.

Devlin Raines was a difficult man to forget.

 

The weather turned cloudy but it didn't rain. The night was clear and balmy enough to leave the top down on his Porsche.

A white-jacketed valet rolled the car up in front of where Dev stood next to Tawny Summers in front of Myst, one of Scottsdale's hottest nightclubs. The music throbbing inside was loud enough to grate on his nerves even way out here.

“Why don't we go over to the Martini Bar?” Tawny suggested. “Have another drink.” She looked sexy as hell in a short red leather dress and spike heels, her blond hair lifted up in a kind of messy knot with fine strands falling beside her shell-like ears.

So why was it that continuing the evening sounded like the worst idea in the world?

“I'm not in the mood,” he said as the valet opened the door on the passenger side of the Porsche and Tawny slid into the deep leather seat.

He opened the door on his side and settled himself behind the wheel.

Tawny smiled up at him. “So we're going to your place?” She wet her lips, lowered her big blue eyes to the front of his slacks. “That sounds good to me.”

A muscle ticked in his cheek. He had no idea why her words did nothing to improve his dismal mood, since that was exactly his plan until a few minutes ago. Now that it was time to take her up to his house for a round of steamy sex, he hadn't the slightest interest.

Maybe he was coming down with the flu or something.

He pulled the car out into traffic, ignored the honk of a horn reminding him to pay attention. “Listen Tawny, something's come up.”

She reached over and cupped his fly, purred, “I was sure it would.”

Dev reached down and eased her hand away. He wasn't a eunuch. If she kept that up, he would probably change his mind. Still, the thought did not appeal to him.

“I'm talking about business. While you were in the ladies' room, I got a phone call. I've got some work I need to do.”

“At one o'clock in the morning?”

He hated to lie. It wasn't his style, but he didn't want to fight with Tawny, and he didn't want to take her to bed. At least not tonight.

He looked at the cleavage pushed into the V of her scarlet dress, but nothing stirred. He was definitely coming down with something.

“I'm sorry, but that's the way it is.” He managed to
smile. “At least you got a good dinner out of it.” Allegory, their first stop tonight, was one of the finest restaurants in Phoenix.

She pushed out her bottom lip. “I wanted you to make love to me.” She cast him a seductive glance from beneath her lashes. “You remember the last time, don't you? How good it was? You know how good I can make you feel.”

“I remember,” he said, but for some reason tonight he would rather forget. “I'll make it up to you next time.”

But he didn't think there would be a next time. At least not with Tawny.

“Well, I suppose, now that you mention it, I am feeling a little tired.”

Probably the half-dozen Cosmos she'd drunk. Dev just nodded and stepped on the gas.

He needed to get home and get some sleep.

Before whatever was wrong with him got a whole lot worse.

 

Antonio Alvarez stood in front of the massive marble-mantled fireplace in his study. The room, two stories high and done in bright Tuscan gold, had a faux balcony painted to look like a scene from the Italian countryside. The ornate balustrade held decorative flower boxes overflowing with red silk geraniums.

Alvarez, a little shorter than average with slicked-back black hair that curled up at his collar, a thin mustache and a round face that matched his rotund body, held up the folded-back pages of an
Us Weekly
. He slapped the offending glossy photos then tossed the magazine onto
the gilt-and-marble coffee table in front of an overstuffed red velvet sofa.

“Who do these people think they are?” he said in rapid Spanish to Paulo Zepeda, one of his top lieutenants. “I am sick and tired of reading about this woman! So she makes purses. So what? She and the little girl, they are making us all look like fools.”

“No one knows you had anything to do with the shootings,” soothed Zepeda, the oldest of Alvarez's inner circle of men, average-looking except for the gray at his temples and a small gray-speckled goatee. “You dealt with Weller and showed the others what would happen if they tried to cheat you, as he did. The problem has been resolved.”

“Manuel should have searched for the girl.” Jorge Santos, a tall, bone-thin man with high cheekbones and a slightly too-long nose, was Alvarez's top lieutenant, the kind of man who liked to stir up trouble. He was sadistic and vengeful, a perfect fit for Alvarez, who enjoyed wielding the immense power he held. “He should have taken care of her along with the rest. Leaving her alive sends a message of weakness.”

Alvarez plucked an issue of the
Enquirer
off the table next to the magazine and waved it at the men. In the front right corner was a photo of the Weller mansion with the caption
Death House
underneath. A story on the second page relayed the dramatic rescue of Byron Weller's adopted four-year-old child.

“I think we should deal with the problem now,” Santos prodded. “As we should have done before.”

“That is not a good idea,” Zepeda said. “We have stirred things up enough.” The voice of reason in an
organization of madmen, Paulo thought. “This will all go away if we just ignore it.” He had worked for Don Pedro Castellon, the former head of the cartel, for many years before the don fell ill and lost control of his empire, and Alvarez's bloodbath had put him in power. Only Paulo's experience and survival instincts had kept him alive through the “reorganization.”

Alvarez tossed the tabloid on top of the magazine. “I will show them who they are dealing with.” He turned to Santos. “The woman… She lives in L.A., does she not? She and the little one?”

“
Sí,
that is what the papers say.”

“Find out where.”

“That will not be a problem.” Santos smiled. “You wish to dispose of them?”

Alvarez's heavy black eyebrows drew together. “Do not be an imbecile. I am not a child killer.” He shrugged his sloped shoulders. “Sometimes certain things must be done to make a point. Or there is collateral damage that cannot be avoided. Just find the child and bring her to me.”

Santos nodded and smiled. “
Sí, jefe.
You are right. These days children are valuable commodities.”

Alvarez reached down and picked up the tabloid and the magazine with only the tips of his fingers, as if they were too dirty to touch. He carried them over to the trash can beneath his desk and tossed them into the container.

“Just do as I say and see she is brought here. I will decide what is to be done with her.”