Books by Maggie Shayne (63 page)

As it turned out, she didn't need to decide. There were two dull thuds, and it seemed as if the man's buttons exploded. Tiny little poofs of fabric. He dropped the gun he'd been pointing at her, a shocked expression on his face as he sank to the sidewalk. Then of course, she saw the blood.

There were squealing tires and roaring motors, and a crash that scared her half to death as a small red car smashed into the back of the long black one, pushing it forward several yards. The red car's passenger door opened, and Johnny yelled. "Get in. Fast!"

She got in, and he was speeding away before she even got the door closed again.

"Did they hurt you?" he asked.

She closed her eyes, only wanting to blot out the sound of his voice and the insane way he was driving until her mind could wrap itself around all that was happening. Leaning her head back against the soft seat, she grabbed the seat belt with her other hand, pulled it around her. But as she fastened it, her hand brushed hot metal and her eyes flew open.

The gun lay on the seat between them. The extension affixed to its end was one she recognized only from watching old Bond films. A silencer.

"You just killed a man," she whispered.

"I didn't have a choice." He adjusted the mirror, looking into it almost as often as he looked at the road ahead of them.

"Are they following?"

"They were." He kept driving, though he did slow down to a more reasonable speed. They came to large, open parking lot, and he pulled in, shut the car off, snatched up the handgun, and got out. "Come on, come with me."

She undid her seat belt and got out too, following a dead man to another car, a dark blue sedan, and she stood near the passenger side door. He pulled out another set of keys, pushed a button to unlock the doors. "Get in."

"No."

He stood on the driver's side, looking over the top of the car at her. "What do you mean, no? They're looking for us, Charlotte, they'll catch up any time now. We need to move."

"I'm not going anywhere until you tell me what's going on, and why you're pretending not to know me." She blinked. "And why you were kissing that blonde at the party."

He licked his lips, glancing back down the road. "There will be time to talk about all of that later. Just get in the car and let me get us somewhere safe, before —"

"Tell me your name. You're real name, Johnny."

"My name is Michael Drummond," he told her. "And unless you get into this car right now, very bad men with very large guns are going to show up and start shooting at you."

She turned her back to him. "I don't care."

"Oh, you don't care," he repeated. "What about your baby, Charlotte? Do you care about your baby?"

Charlotte spun around to face him. "Yes, I do. Do you?"

Their eyes locked over the hood of the car. He said, "It's not...it's been..."

"Eight months, Johnny. It's been eight months to the day. And yes, it is yours."

Tires squealed in the distance. "Charlotte for the love of God, get into the car."

Battling tears yet again, she got into the car. So did he, dropping the handgun on the seat again, where it would be within easy reach. He drove quietly and carefully out the opposite side of the parking lot, and onto an all but deserted street. Charlotte watched behind them, but she didn't think they were being followed. Johnny drove to the highway, taking side roads and a convoluted route to get there. Once they blended in with the other traffic, though, he seemed to relax a little.

He glanced at her, looking her over. "What are you doing here, anyway?" he asked at length.

She shrugged. "I had to get away. I just couldn't stay in Chicago anymore. So many bad things happened there. First you being killed the way you were. And then Daddy — he was arrested on some insane charge that he was involved with horrible crimes. Laundering money for drug lords, the D.A. said." She squeezed her eyes shut tight. "It was all a mistake. I know it would have been all right if he just could have held on. But his heart gave out before he even made bail." She shook her head slowly. "I had no one else. With Daddy gone, and the rumors that lived on after him, I just saw no sense in my staying there."

Lowering her head very slowly, she sighed. "If I knew the son of a bitch who was responsible for putting my father through all that, I honestly don't know if I could keep myself from doing them harm. Physical harm." Then finally, she looked up. "What about you, Johnny? What are you doing here? You're supposed to be dead."

He pursed his lips, glanced her way. "I'm the son of a bitch who put your father through all that," he said. "My name is Michael Drummond. I work undercover for the US Government's Federal Drug Task Force. And your father's arrest was the result of a year-long investigation in which I played the role of Jonathon Stone, got close to him, and gathered evidence against him."

Charlotte felt as if he'd just stuck a hot blade straight into her chest. "And one of the ways you got close to him...was by getting close to me?"

He lowered his head.

"You used me? It was all just an act? Everything you said to me, everything we said to each other? It was just a game to you?" She stared at him in disbelief. "My God, you made me fall in love with you. You asked me to marry you — all just so you could destroy my father?"

He couldn't seem to hold her eyes. "I didn't mean for things between us to get — as far as they did. Your father was pushing for the marriage, and I ran out of reasons to put him off. He was beginning to suspect —"

"So you decided it was necessary to rip my heart out and crush it in your hands, all to keep your cover intact. Hell, Johnny, that makes perfect sense."

"Michael. My name is Michael. And I'm sorry."

"Not as sorry as you're going to be," she whispered as she closed her hand around the gun, lifted it between them, and pointed it at him. It was hard to see through all the tears, but she didn't suppose that would matter at such close range, anyway.

"Stop the car, Michael," she said, and to his ears it sounded as if his name, his real name, tasted bad on her lips.

"I don't blame you for being angry," he began.

"Angry?
Angry?
" She laughed, a short, harsh sound that made his belly tighten with guilt. He could hear the pain in her laugh. "I'm not angry, Michael. What I'm feeling right now is ice-cold hatred. I hate you.
I hate you.
"

"I don't blame you for that, either. It's good that you hate me. Better for you that way. But you're not going to shoot me, Charlotte. You're not the kind of woman who could kill a man."

"Maybe I didn't used to be." She sniffed. "Then again, maybe you never really knew me as well as you thought you did. God knows it's possible."

He shook his head. "I was coming back for you."

"Liar. Stop the car."

He kept driving. "I know it sounds like a lie. Something any man would say to a woman holding a gun to his head, but it's the truth. It killed me to leave you the way I did, Charlotte. But I had to."

"Why?"

"Because your father was on to me right at the end. He told the drug lord he was working for that I was a cop, and a hit was put out on me. If I hadn't "died" on my way to the wedding, Charlotte, I'd have been killed shortly afterward. Your father had it all worked out with Carl Magenta ."

She lifted her brows. It made him hurt to see her beautiful face so ravaged by emotion. The tears had burned red paths into her cheeks and her eyes were swollen and bloodshot. "Uncle Carl?" she asked. "A drug lord?"

"Yeah. And unlike your father, he lived to go to trial."

"Where he was acquitted of all charges."

"A hung jury is not an acquittal. There's already an investigation into jury tampering underway. Those jurors were threatened, Charlotte. Their lives and their spouses and their kids were threatened. That's the only reason "Uncle Carl" is still on the streets."

"Carl Magenta wouldn't hurt a fly," Charlotte whispered.

"And those men who are chasing us right now — just who do you think they work for? Hmm?"

While he let that sink in, he gave her a bit more to think about. "You were safe, so long as you believed me dead. Carl assumed you'd been taken in just as he and your father had. But then you came here, to the same city where his spies had already tracked me. You showed up at the same party, were probably even seen talking to me there, and so they have to assume you know. That you were in on the whole plan with me, all along."

She blinked slowly. "You're saying Carl wants me dead? Me, his precious, pregnant, honorary niece?"

"That's exactly what I'm saying. I left the way I did, without telling you a thing about any of this, because it was the only way to keep you safe, short of killing the bastard in cold blood. An option I might have taken by now, if I could get close enough to the son of a bitch. And just so you know, the blonde at the party was one of Carl's associates. I was hoping to get to him through her."

"So the blonde meant nothing to you, and you only broke my heart to save my life," she whispered. "Doesn't that sound noble?"

"Yeah, it does. Which is why I feel compelled to ask why you're still pointing that gun at me."

"Because I don't believe a word of it. Now stop the car."

"I'll stop the car when we get where we're going. If you still want to shoot me, you can do it there, okay?"

She blinked, then suddenly closed her eyes and clenched her jaw.

"Charlotte?" The car swerved as he spent too much time looking at her and not enough looking at the road. "Charlotte, what is it?"

"Nothing!" She barked the word, keeping the gun on him, though her hand shook badly.

Finally, she opened her eyes again, lowered the gun to her lap, but kept it clasped tightly in her hands. "How much farther?"

"Half an hour," he said. "It'll be safe there. I promise. I know this has all been a terrible shock to you, Charlotte. I know you don't want to believe anything bad about your father, and I don't blame you. If you give me time, I can show you proof that everything I've said is true."

"That's not possible."

"Of course it's possible. We have all kinds of evidence."

"Really? How do you document that you weren't just using me all along, Michael? What physical evidence do you have that will convince me that every time we made love, you meant one thing you whispered to me? That you ever cared about me in the least? You told me you'd love me until you died, Michael." She searched his face with eyes so probing they felt like blades. "You're still alive."

He drove in silence for a while, saying nothing at all. He didn't know what he could say that would sound any more genuine to her. She was right; he had used her. Lied to her. Made promises he knew he would probably never be able to keep.

But he'd wanted to keep them.

She leaned back against the headrest, closed her eyes, and after a few more miles slipped by, he thought she might have fallen asleep. It was good for her to rest. She'd been through so much tonight, God, so much in the past year. Losing him, her father, and then...

He glanced down at her belly. She was pregnant, carrying his child. He didn't think she had it in her to lie about something like that. His baby. Due any time now, by the looks of things. The thought of his child being born to a woman who hated him was not a pleasant one.

And yet, unless he could fix things, put Carl Magenta away for good, it wouldn't matter who bore the child. It wouldn't be safe. None of them would be safe, ever.

He turned at last onto the spiraling dirt road that lead up the small mountain to the cabin that was his only haven. It was where he hid out in between cases. It was where he retreated when he was being hunted like a dog and needed a few days off. It was the only place he felt truly safe, and it was a place he had never shared with another living soul.

And it was miles and miles from civilization. No phone. No electricity. A hand pump for water, a cold spring for refrigeration, a fireplace for heat, and an outhouse for a bathroom. It was his sanctuary.

He hadn't been back up here in six months. It was where he'd come to lick his wounds after leaving Charlotte. Where he had come to try to forget her.

It hadn't worked.

He shut the car off and glanced at her. She was sleeping so soundly he would have felt mean to wake her, still clutching the damn gun. As if she might really use it on him. He knew better. He got out quietly, and left her there to rest. He unlocked the cabin and went inside. His flashlight was hanging from a hook just inside the door, as always, and he used it to find his way around until he got a few lanterns burning.

He was kneeling in front of the fireplace, touching a match to the kindling there, when he heard her footsteps crossing the porch. The door creaked open, and he rose, and turned to see her standing there.

"We'll be safe here," he said.

"Speak for yourself, Michael. I think I'm in labor."

"Labor?" Michael had faced down gangs of armed criminals and felt less fear than what jolted through him at that single word. "Are you sure?"

Charlotte walked forward, one hand at the small of her back, the other carrying the gun he had left in the car with her. "No. I'm not at all sure. I've had three...pains, or contractions, or something in the past —" she glanced at her watch "— hour and a half. It might be nothing."

"Or it might be labor."

She nodded, lowering herself onto the sofa near the crackling fire. Its light painted her face and her hair, and though she was puffy and red-eyed from crying, she was every bit as beautiful as he remembered. More, maybe. Pregnancy agreed with her. He saw her tuck the gun behind the cushion, and decided to let her keep it if it made her feel more secure.

"What do you want me to do?" he asked.

She shrugged. "Depends. How far to the nearest hospital?"

"An hour."

She nodded. "And how risky do you think it is for us to go back out tonight?"

He shook his head slowly. "No way to tell for sure. They wouldn't be looking at hospitals, at any rate. It's not like they know you're this close."

"Actually," she said, making a sheepish face, "they might. I was having the first pain when that guy with the gun came up to me. The ones in the car could have seen it."

He went to the kitchen, pumped water from the hand pump, letting most of it run right down the drain, until it ran sparkling clear. Then he rinsed a small teapot, filled it, and brought it to the fireplace. He hung it on a hinged hook, then pushed the hook into the hearth so the pot hung over the flames.

"I'll tell you what," he said. "You just tell me if you feel you need to go to the hospital or not. If you have to go, I'll make sure it's safe. That's my job."

She nodded. "I'd like to rest awhile, give it some time. It could be false labor. I've had it once already."

"Okay." He nodded, watching her.

"I'm not expecting anything from you, you know. I mean, you always used protection. This baby isn't your fault. I won't hold you responsible."

He lowered his head. "Do you really think that's what I want? To be let off the hook?"

"Isn't it?"

"No, Charlotte." He sighed. "Hell, I don't know how to fix this. I don't know how to make you believe that I —" He broke off there. The fire popped and hissed in the darkness. He leaned over her, slid his arms around her, and gathered her close to him. Then he kissed her, the way he'd been dreaming of kissing her every single day since he'd broken her heart.

She let him. She even kissed him back.

When he lifted his head again, her eyes were sparkling. And she whispered, "Was that real, Michael, or just one more part of the beautiful lie you made me believe all those months ago?"

He stared into her eyes, saw her tears, felt his own throat burn and tighten. "I'm going outside," he said at length. "I need to turn on the gas to the kitchen stove, and split up some more firewood. I'll be within earshot, okay?"

"All right."

* * *

Charlotte let him go, let the door close behind him, and she tried to erase the feelings his kiss had stirred to life inside her. God, she wanted to believe him. She wanted it so much.

She had thought she needed to rest, but now she felt restless, agitated, nervous. Pent up energy sizzled inside her, and she got up off the sofa, picked up a lantern, and wandered the small cabin, taking in every part of it. But even while she explored, her mind was on Michael. What if she let him convince her that he still harbored feelings for her? What if she just gave over to the maddening temptation to believe his lies? What was the worst that could happen?

Maybe he was still working the case, her mind warned. Maybe he was going to try to prove that she had been involved in her father's crimes as well. What would happen to her baby if he managed to make a case against her?

Would he do such a thing? Once she would have said absolutely not. But once she had thought she knew him. Now, she wasn't sure of anything anymore.

He was alive. God, that was one thing she hadn't even fully processed yet. He was alive. She sank down onto softness, and lowered her head and wept with joy that the man she had loved and lost was alive. She had dreamed of this very thing, night after long lonely night. Even if he had lied to her, used her, betrayed her, she still couldn't help but cherish the fact that he was alive.

When her tears stopped, she lifted her head and looked around the room into which she had wandered. A bedroom with a soft four-poster double bed, made of pine logs, and an old-fashioned quilt. There was a window in one side, and beside the bed, a bedside stand with a framed photograph, glinting in the lamplight, and a spiral notebook in front of it.

Blinking, she set the lamp down near the photo and saw that it was a picture of her. With trembling hands, she reached for the notebook and flipped it open. A pen marked the place where the last person to write in it had left off, and she recognized Michael's scrawl across the page.

"It's been two months since I left her, and I can't get her out of my mind. She loved me. I know she did. It must be killing her to think I'm dead. God knows it would kill me if I thought she was. But that's just it — she will be if I go back. If I tell her any of this, it could get her killed. I have to nail Magenta. And then I can go back for her. I can tell her the truth and hope to God she can forgive me for the hell I've put her through. If she won't — no. I can't think about that. I'll fix this; I swear to God I will. I'll find some way to make it right again. And I'll spend every minute in hell until then. I love her. I ache for her. It hurts to breathe knowing I can't be with her. It hurts to breathe."

Hearing his footsteps crossing the threshold, she turned toward him, tears spilling over, ready to tell him that it was okay again. That she believed him. That she loved him.

But it wasn't Michael standing in the doorway.

"What's the matter, baby?" he asked. "Haven't you got a warm welcome for your Uncle Carl?"