Hunt Her Down (6 page)

“I’ll go file these.” Brandy stood up and cracked her back with a groan. “Look, what’s to be

interested? He lives in New York, not Miami. Use him for what he’s offering, get your rocks

off a few times, and kiss him good-bye. You’ve got one more night of maternal freedom. Who

cares if he knows you have a son or not?”

“He might not come back tonight.”

Brandy snorted as she headed to the office. “Oh, he’ll be back.”

Alone, Maggie picked up the other picture on the end table, taken their last Christmas as a

whole family. Smitty with his insanely wide smile and shiny bald head, one arm around

Maggie, the other around a skinny nine-year-old, glowing like he’d found buried treasure and

was keeping it all for himself.

Except if Smitty had found treasure, he’d have bought a bigger boat and spent the rest on

live bait, and told Maggie it was securely in the bank.

“Uh, Lena. You been cleaning?”

“No.”

“Then you better come in here.”

Maggie pushed off the couch and headed toward the third bedroom she used as an office,

where Brandy stood with one hand out to a completely empty file drawer. “Any chance Quinn

had the sudden burning need to go through the last twenty years of bar tabs? Because this

puppy’s been wiped out.”

For a moment, she just stared, unable to comprehend. Then she slowly turned and took in

the rest of the office. Nothing looked touched. She pulled open another file drawer. Empty.

And the top desk drawer. Still full of junk, but the red folder where she kept unpaid bills was

gone.

“Someone’s been in here—oh God. The strongbox!” Maggie dropped to her knees to her

hiding place under the desk where she kept their most important papers. The deed to the bar,

passports. Quinn’s birth certificate.

“Brandy, call Deputy Nusbaum. Someone robbed us.”

“What about your jewelry? Anything else?”

Maggie darted down the hall to her room. She yanked open the top drawer of her dresser

and let out a groan. The pink cloth–covered jewelry box was moved to the left. She flipped

the top, and the tiny diamond ring that had been Smitty’s mother’s was still there. Along with

Baba’s tarot cards. Next to the box, the tarnished silver container that said Baby’s First lay

open; a single yellowed tooth lay in a lock of flaxen hair.

She put her hand on her stomach, the violation so intense she almost gagged. Someone had

broken into her house and touched her personal treasures.

“Nusbaum’s on his way,” Brandy said from the doorway, snapping her phone closed.

“Goddamn teenagers looking for drug money.”

“They were neat, then. I never even noticed when I came home. I just went to bed.” Maggie

closed her eyes, the realization hitting hard. “I’m so glad Quinn wasn’t home last night.”

Lola James strode across the expanse of her office, her three-inch heels snapping to the

rhythm that propelled her forward. The familiar beat of the way she lived her life: fast, steady,

ferocious.

She picked up the ringing PDA, not bothering to look at the ID. She knew who it was.

Instead, she glanced at her reflection in the corner window, which was far nicer than the view

of downtown Miami. She smoothed the hip-hugging skirt and lifted her chin to admire the

strong lines of her jaw. Then her eyes focused on the view outside the offices of Omnibus

Transport, LLC. It beat the last place she had, in South Miami, and the hellhole before that in

Hialeah.

But she could do so much better.

That’s what she’d done with her private real estate, and what she’d do with her company.

Always, always moving up. Getting better. Getting more and more
attractive
. She’d done it to

her body, her face, her home, and her business was next.

“Just come up the elevator and knock,” she said as she answered the phone on the fourth

ring. No need to seem anxious. “I left the main door open, and there’s no one else here on a

Saturday.”

No one but her, and she’d work
eight
days a week if she could. Not that she didn’t enjoy

her weekend nights. She’d certainly enjoyed
last
night. She brushed her palms over her

breasts, remembering how they’d been admired and attended to. Yes, she’d enjoyed that man

a lot.

But she had three minutes until this one arrived, so she dropped onto her chair and touched

the laptop to bring it to life. Lola never wasted anything, especially time. At twenty-three, she

was already almost a millionaire. You didn’t get there by taking breaks and thinking about

men who’d adored you for a few hours.

Well, some breaks. And some men.

While she waited, she clicked through the air-shipping schedule for the evening, and

dashed off a quick note to the CEO of a furniture company in North Carolina who’d just

signed on as Omnibus Transport’s latest customer. That one gave her a twinge of satisfaction.

After all, furniture delivery had always been the humble roots of this little empire.

The elevator dinged and she touched the button on her desk to unlock her door, a security

measure she’d learned from her father. Standing up, she rounded the desk to position herself

in front of it. She’d make him sit of course, the only way to get a height advantage on a man

of six-two.

The door opened slowly and she met the steely eyes of Constantine Xenakis, thief,

mercenary, and one of the finest specimens of male to ever cross her threshold. She took a

slow ride down his incredible body, but her gaze stopped at the tan box in his hand.

The thrill of victory was so intense she shivered. “Well, that looks promising. A lockbox.”

“There was nothing else close to what you wanted in her house.”

“Maybe she carries it with her.”

“I thought of that, but wasn’t able to get her bag. She’s got muscle.” He took three long

strides to her desk and clunked the box on her desk. “Or . . . someone else has beat you to the

punch.”

She curled her lip. Impossible. “Maybe Maggie did get some protection. She’s probably

heard that Ramon is out.”

“She goes by Lena, and she doesn’t just have a bodyguard, my friend. She has one of the

best in the business. A Bullet Catcher. That’s with capital letters. Top man in the company,

too, so she’s paying a handsome fee for his services. Unless . . .” He looked hard at her. “You

planted him there.”

Lola dismissed the suggestion with a wave. “Nope. You got this, and if you got what I

wanted, nothing else matters. You didn’t open it, did you?”

“Of course not.” He eased into one of her guest chairs, lifting his legs to land a pair of

scuffed Docksiders next to the box on the desk in a move both rude and arrogant.

No matter. She touched the lock. “Can you get this off?’

“Yes.”

“Then do it.”

He grinned. “Lock removal’s an extra grand.”

“Fuck you, Con.” Not for one minute did she believe he hadn’t opened the box before he

brought it here. But he wouldn’t keep what she wanted, because then he wouldn’t get the ten

thousand dollars she’d agreed to pay him for it.

She yanked open the top drawer of her desk and pulled out her little pink-handled revolver,

aiming it at the box.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake.” He slammed his feet down and took the gun from her hand. “And I

thought you were elegant.”

The dig stung, but at this point, she didn’t care. Her heart rate was up and her palms were

damp. She was so close. So, so close to finally winning Alonso Jimenez’s biggest game.

Con stood, reached into his pants pocket, and pulled out a tiny silver cell phone, which he

set on the desk, then a key ring, which he squeezed, popping out a short metal prong. He put it

in the lock, twisting once, then again. The lock released with a soft ping.

She took off the lock and slowly lifted the dented lid. Her father used to tell her that

sometimes the most valuable treasures were hidden in ugly places.

Of course, he said that when he squeezed her face and tried to erase the insult by jostling

her chin. The heartless bastard.

There wasn’t much in the box, but that was okay. What she wanted was very small. But all

it held was . . . papers.

She lifted one after the other. Insurance. Deeds. A birth certificate. A passport? A wedding

license?

That was it. Legal papers.

She sifted through again, checking corners, fluttering the documents. “It’s not here.” “It’s

nowhere else in her house. I looked in all the places where women keep things.”

Glaring daggers of accusation, she leaned forward. “If you doublecross me, you lying,

thieving bastard, you’ll be sorry.”

“Calm down, Lola. I have to get to her another way than a B and E into her house or bar. I

have to talk to her, which I would have easily done if that Bullet Catcher hadn’t beat me to it.”

“I agree, and I have just the thing to make her talk. Leave.”

“What?”

“Go out in the hall. I’ll let you back in. I want to show you something, but you need to

leave first.”

He got up with an amused look on his face and walked out, closing the door with a solid

click, but she followed him and double-checked the lock. You couldn’t trust a thief.

Then she headed to the wet bar, crouched down, and opened the cabinet, which, of course,

didn’t contain a drop of alcohol.

Reaching into the back, she touched the digital pad hidden behind a false door and entered

the passcode. At her desk, a soft snap told her it worked. She returned to her chair, placing her

hands under the front of the desk and inching out the false bottom.

There were two items on the left side. She picked up one, a photograph of a boy not more

than twelve. She closed the drawer, closed the wet bar door, too, then buzzed Con back in.

She handed him the picture. “Use this to get it.”

He glanced at the boy, then up at her, disgust in his eyes. “A kid?”

“I suppose you’d want more money.”

He set the picture down, making no effort to hide his disgust. “No, thanks.”

“Oh, please, you’re suddenly developing morals?”

“I’m suddenly developing a deep distaste for your style.” He picked up his phone and

headed back to the door. Damn it, she had no choice.

“Seventy-five thousand,” she said quickly.

Con hesitated and looked over his shoulder, his silvery stare cold. “A hundred.”

“Fine.” What was a hundred thousand when she stood to make a hundred million? “Take

it,” she said, waving the picture.

“I don’t need it.” He left without another word.

Alone, Lola sat back down, disappointment seeping through her. Not because of the money

she’d just spent, but because she thought she had Viejo beat. But the momentum in the game

was definitely not on her side.

She lifted up a crispy parchment deed, the marriage license, the birth certificate, and let

them flutter to her shiny desk. Useless crap that didn’t . . .

For a moment, she didn’t breathe. She just stared at the words in front of her and felt her

jaw loosen.

Constantine Xenakis might just have earned his ten thousand dollars. Because if

information was power, this little tidbit was a nuclear plant.

Magdalena Varcek. You little vixen
.

The game had just shifted Lola’s way.

BY FIVE O’CLOCK on Sunday afternoon, Dan lost the fight.

He’d done really well, too. He hadn’t gone back to Smitty’s. He hadn’t gone back to

Maggie’s little house less than two miles from the marina next to the bar. He hadn’t

succumbed to what he knew was a very bad idea . . . one more night with her.

More specifically, one more night of sex with her.

If she somehow figured out who he was, she’d want to kill him. If he slept with her and

disappeared
again
—well, nothing could justify that. She deserved better.

He’d even packed his bags and checked out of the resort, with every intention of getting

into that rented Porsche by noon and heading straight up U.S. 1 to Miami to spend a few days

with Max and Cori and little Peyton. Maybe he’d call the Bullet Catchers’ office and run a

background on Constantine Xenakis. That’s all he needed to do.

Nothing had to be done . . . in person.

Yet, he turned onto the street where she lived. He still had that nagging belief that he

recognized the vandal who’d broken into the car, so he just couldn’t leave. It wasn’t safe for

her.

Then he turned the corner and saw her.

Man, it wasn’t safe for
him
.

She was splayed over the hood of a white truck, sudsy water rolling all over the place, her

arms wiping furiously. Tiny jeans shorts barely covered her heart-shaped butt, a bushel of

curls tied up like a palm tree grew out of her head, and the skimpy pink tank top had to be

soaking wet as she laid her whole screaming-hot body over the front end of the Silverado.

Whoa. Could he possibly have her, just once, and then leave the same way he appeared?

Quickly and mysteriously and without explanation?

Could he possibly
not?

She hadn’t yet noticed the Porsche idling at the stop sign two houses away. Throwing the

sponge down, she pushed off the truck, landing on her bare feet and brushing stray, wet hairs

off her face with the back of her hand. She turned to the house and yelled something.