Hot Wheels and High Heels (8 page)

At least she had her answer now. Put quite simply, Warren was a lousy gambler who amassed a huge amount of debt and was reluctant to have his knees broken. But she had news for him. If she ever saw him again, his knees would be the least of what she’d break.

Darcy spent the rest of the day with her head in a murky cloud of disbelief. As evening approached, she was ready to dive headfirst into a glass of alcohol. She thought about opening the bottle of Shiraz Tony had rescued from her car, but now the wine she might have once had with Chinese takeout seemed more valuable than gold.

Instead she chugged some Wild Turkey with her mother, then sat like a zombie in front of a NASCAR race with her father while her mother did the
TV Guide
crossword puzzle. At ten o’clock, Darcy stumbled to bed in a haze of lower-class mediocrity.

The next morning she was shaken from sleep by late-morning sunlight bursting through the window, the kind that turns pupils into pinpoints and aggravates the hell out of a tears-and-bourbon headache. Pepé was standing on her stomach, staring down at her like a child whose alcoholic mother has been tipping the bottle again. She pulled him down to the bed, turned on her side, and cuddled him against her.

She wished she could lapse into a coma so she wouldn’t have to face the day. But sooner or later she had to get out of this bed and do
something,
though she didn’t have a clue what. The urge to draw a warm bath and haul out the razor blades had passed, but in its place was a scary little ball of nerves that felt permanently stuck in her stomach.

She had no money and no means of getting any. No man on the horizon willing to step into Warren’s shoes. What was she going to do?

Finally she pushed the covers away and sat up, the blood vessels in her temples on the verge of exploding. She shuffled to the kitchen and fed Pepé some of the unrecognizable animal parts in a can that her father had found, left over from a few months ago when Duke the Wonder Dog had gone to the great duck hunt in the sky. Pepé wolfed down one plateful of it and looked up for more. Darcy sighed. Her dog was so nondiscriminating sometimes that she wondered if he really was hers or whether puppies had been switched at birth.

Darcy pulled out a chair and plopped down at the table, feeling like Raggedy Ann in the midst of a major depressive episode. And that depression took an even bigger nosedive when her mother showed her the business section of the
Dallas Morning News.

SYBERSENSE EXEC EMBEZZLES $300,000.

“Now the whole world is going to know about it,” Lyla said, puffing away on her Virginia Slims as if the Surgeon General had never weighed in on the issue. “You married a criminal, Darcy. How could you have married a criminal?”

Darcy wanted to beat her head against the table. “He wasn’t a criminal when I married him.”

“Maybe he was. Maybe he just hid it really well all these years.”

“Mom—”

“Forget it. It doesn’t matter now. What matters is that the detective said you’ll never see any of that money again, so it’s time to start thinking about what to do now.”

“She might consider getting that job we talked about,” her father said.

“Clayton, will you shut up about that? Now that Warren is gone for sure, she needs more than a paycheck. She needs another husband.”

“She doesn’t need a man to take care of her.”

“You’re right. She doesn’t. As long as she doesn’t mind eating out of a Dumpster.”

Thanks, Mom. I need a horrible image like that to haunt me twenty-four hours a day.

“First things first, Darcy. Put yourself together. You’ll feel better. No woman feels good when she looks like hell.”

Darcy wasn’t sure she’d feel good if she
didn’t
look like hell, but it was worth a shot. Forty-five minutes later, she came back out to the kitchen, her hair dried and her makeup on, and wearing a print skirt, a knit top, and her Claudia Ciuti sandals. Her mother gave her a once-over.

“That skirt’s really not your color.”

“It’s a print skirt, Mom. Which color isn’t me?”

“All of them. Are you hungry?”

Darcy poured a cup of coffee. “No, thanks.”

“No. You should eat something.” Lyla opened the pantry door. “Let’s see . . . I have some bagels—no, wait. They’re a little green.” She moved some stuff around. “Oh. Here are some Pop Tarts. And some instant oatmeal. And one of those muffin mixes with the dehydrated strawberries.” She searched through the shelves a while longer. “And some Froot Loops.”

Dumpster-diving was looking better all the time. “Pop Tarts, I guess.” Flavored rubber between two pieces of cardboard. She couldn’t wait.

Lyla shoved two Pop Tarts into the toaster, then went to the kitchen sink to put some dishes into the dishwasher.

“Oh, my
God!
”

Darcy just about spilled her coffee. “What?”

“Will you look at that! A limousine!”

Darcy rose and looked out the window over the sink. Sure enough, a sleek black limo sat at the curb.

“What do you suppose it’s doing here?” Lyla said.

“I don’t know, but somebody’s getting out.”

“It’s a woman,” Lyla said. “At least I think it’s a woman. She’s coming this way!”

There were three sharp raps at the door. Darcy opened it and came face-to-face with a short, compact woman wearing a black shirt, black jeans, black boots. Her dark hair was cut in a short, utilitarian style, and she wore not a speck of makeup or a single piece of jewelry. She held her hands behind her in military-ready fashion, looking at Darcy with a grim, almost lethal expression.

“Yes?” Darcy said.

“I’m looking for Darcy McDaniel.”

“I’m Darcy McDaniel.”

“Mr. Bridges would like to speak with you.”

“Excuse me?”

“Jeremy Bridges.”

Darcy blinked with surprise. She knew that name. He owned Sybersense Systems, the software company Warren worked for, along with about a dozen other companies. He was one of those computer wonder boys who had turned a tiny software company into a huge conglomerate, going from ordinary citizen to multimillionaire in a very short period of time. She’d asked Warren once what he was like and had gotten two words in response:
young
and
eccentric.
That hadn’t been much to go on, so Darcy wasn’t quite sure what she was in for now. But with her mother all but shoving her out the door, it looked as if she was going to find out.

Darcy followed the woman down the stairs and across the yard. The woman opened the rear door of the limousine. With the tinted windows, at first all Darcy saw inside was black. She climbed inside and sat down, and when she turned to face the man on the seat beside her, she got the shock of her life.

This
was Jeremy Bridges?

He lounged against the opposite door, his arm along the back of the seat, wearing a pair of khaki shorts, a faded Hawaiian shirt, and flip-flops, holding a bottle of Corona against his knee. A lock of sandy brown hair fell carelessly across his forehead, and a day’s growth of beard darkened his cheeks and chin. Interventions by a hairstylist, a wardrobe consultant, and a sommelier were definitely in order.

But wait a minute. This couldn’t be him. She knew Bridges was in his late thirties, and this guy looked like a college kid who’d rented a limo with his buddies to go for a joy ride.

“Hi, Darcy,” he said. “I’m Jeremy Bridges.”

Darcy blinked. Blinked again.
Impossible.
“Uh . . . hello, Mr. Bridges.”

“Jeremy. You don’t mind chatting with me for a minute, do you?”

Soft Texas drawl. Pleasant smile. Disarming manner. Those things should have put her at ease, but they didn’t. Anytime reality didn’t meet expectation, she always went on guard.

“No,” she said. “Not at all.”

Then Darcy realized the woman who’d summoned her had climbed into the limo behind her and was sitting on the seat across from them. Jeremy nodded in her direction.

“Darcy, this is Bernadette Hogan.”

Darcy swallowed hard. “Hello.”

A curt nod was her only acknowledgment. Who in the world was she? Business associate? Relative? Prison parolee?

“Bernie is my bodyguard,” Jeremy said.

Darcy blinked. “Bodyguard?”

“We’ve had a few incidents. Too many nutcases out there think kidnapping a rich guy is a great moneymaking opportunity.”

“Well,” Darcy said, trying to sound cordial, “I don’t believe I’ve ever heard of a woman acting as a bodyguard before.”

Bernie raised her chin ever so slightly, her dark eyes narrowing.

“But I’m sure you’re very good at it,” Darcy added.

“Bernie is ex-military,” Jeremy said. “And a martial arts expert. She runs five miles a day unless it’s raining. Then she runs ten.” He leaned in and whispered, “She’s rumored to have once killed a man with a Popsicle stick.”

Darcy glanced back at Bernie and swallowed hard. Forget the Popsicle stick. She could probably kill a man with a cotton ball.

“Bernie,” Jeremy said, “why don’t you wait outside for just a minute while I talk to Darcy? I think you’re making her nervous.”

Without a word, Bernie got out of the car. She closed the door and stood beside it with her arms folded, waiting vigilantly for one of the residents of Wingate Manufactured Home Park to get the urge to kidnap a multimillionaire.

“Lovely woman,” Darcy said, even though the “lovely” didn’t fit, and the jury was still out on “woman.”

“Uh-huh.” Jeremy took a swig of his beer, then rested it on his knee again. “You’re staring.”

Darcy blinked. “Oh. I’m sorry. It’s just that . . .”

“Yeah, I know. I don’t look like a millionaire. That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it?”

“Uh . . .”

“You know, I can’t imagine anyone with money going for that rich-guy look. If a man has enough money that he doesn’t have to answer to anyone, why would he put on a suit coat and wear a noose around his neck?”

Actually, that made a lot of sense to Darcy. In her mind, though, millionaire still equaled Armani. “But you do have a limousine.”

“Dallas traffic sucks. It’s more comfortable to have somebody else drive while I watch TV and have a beer. Wait a minute—where are my manners? Would you like a beer?”

“Uh . . . no, thanks.”

“If you’d rather have a shot of caffeine, I think I have a couple of Mountain Dews in the fridge.”

Beer? Mountain Dew? What was this, a tailgate party at the Super Bowl? “No, thanks. I’m fine.”

“So,” he said, “where do you suppose Warren is, and what has he done with my three hundred thousand dollars?”

Darcy cringed, feeling guilty by association, even though she was as much in the dark as Jeremy. “I’m afraid I don’t know.”

“Yeah, that’s what you told the police. I was hoping you’d have a different story for me.”

“A different story? I don’t understand.”

“Are you covering for Warren?”

Darcy nearly choked. “Covering for him? Why would I be doing that? He ran off with everything I own!”

“So the police told me.”

“I came back from a vacation and he’d disappeared. He’d sold our house. Cashed in our assets. Ran up our credit cards. He took
everything.
”

“Yeah, you’d think something like that would really piss a woman off. But they’re funny sometimes. Guys crap all over them, but still they cover for them.”

“No. I assure you, I don’t have the first clue where my husband is. And he should be glad of that. If I ever see him again, I just might . . .”

Her voice trailed off, and Jeremy smiled. “What? Put your knee where it would inflict the most damage?”

“Well, I wouldn’t have put it that way, but—”

“But the thought has crossed your mind.”

She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again.

“Good. That means we’re on the same page. So you had no warning that he was getting ready to take off?”

“None at all.”

“No weird behavior? Odd phone calls?”

“Not that I remember.”

“Is there anywhere in particular he likes to travel outside the United States?”

“He tends to gravitate toward anyplace there’s a casino, but I’m afraid that doesn’t narrow it down much.”

Jeremy took out a business card. “This number will get me directly. If you happen to remember something, let me know, will you?”

“Of course,” she said, taking the card. “But I have to tell you, I’m surprised you’re bothering to chase down such a tiny sum of money.” She gave him a flattering smile. “You probably make three hundred thousand dollars every day before lunch.”

“Uh-huh. But I didn’t get where I am by allowing people to steal from me. Anytime one of my employees sticks his hand in the cookie jar”—he leaned in and emphasized every word—“I take it
very
personally.”

His no-nonsense expression sounded a warning bell, telling Darcy this was a man she should never underestimate. He might look like an overgrown kid, but he sounded like Tony Soprano.

He nodded toward her parents’ mobile home. “You’re probably taking it a little personally yourself.”

He didn’t know the half of it. “How did you know where I was living now?”

“It’s one of the perks of being filthy rich. I can find out anything I want to.” He smiled. “So how are you getting along now that your husband cleaned you out?”

Darcy sighed. “I’m managing.”

“Hope you stuck a few bucks under your mattress for a rainy day.”

Darcy was getting a little tired of hearing that. First from her mother and now from this man. Was it really so unbelievable that she hadn’t foreseen a day when her husband would walk off with every dime she had?

“Let’s just say that maintaining a decent lifestyle is going to be difficult,” she said.

“Do you have a job?”

Now he’d morphed into her father, and she didn’t want to hear that, either. But the truth was that without a job, maintaining
any
lifestyle was going to be a challenge.

“No, I don’t.”

“How old are you?” he asked.

Did he have to hit every sore spot she had? She smiled indulgently, trying not to act as offended as she was. “Now, Jeremy, don’t you know that’s a question you should never ask a lady?”