I'll Find You (5 page)

“You
hurt
me,” she repeated on a hiccup. For good measure she leaned her cheek against the hot wall and closed her eyes. She could feel her body tremble and she added a little stuttering intake of breath, hoping he felt terrible.

“Aww hell,” he muttered. Then, “Don’t try to run away again.”

“I’ll be lucky to walk with the aid of a cane,” she said, working up to tears. If she could just squeeze out a few maybe he’d realize what he’d done to her, how much he’d scared her.

There was definitely a hesitation. Good. She wanted him to think she was worse than she was. And he
had
scared her. And her jaw and head hurt and her knee was scraped, and that was his fault too. Her eyes burned and tears reached her lashes.

“I know your games,” he said. “Stephen told me. Victoria said something too.”

“I thought you were looking for Stephen.”

“Not the boy.” He sounded like he was holding on to his patience with an effort. “Stephen. Your husband.”

She cracked open an eye and saw that he was watching a tear slide down her cheek. “My husband?”

He met her gaze. “Man, your act is getting old.”

“Just leave me alone.”

“Show me Tucker and I’ll be glad to.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t know you.”

“Fine. I’ll play. I’m West.” When she continued to regard him blankly, he shook his head and said, “You’re a lot better than I expected.”

“I’m not this Teresa, and I’ve never heard of you in my life, Mr. West.”

“Laughlin,” he corrected. “First name’s West.”

“Whatever.”

She gazed down the alley and saw her carryall where she’d dropped it before she ran. It had gotten knocked over in their skirmish and birds of paradise lay with bent stems, making it seem like their necks were broken. The lilies hadn’t fared much better. They were scattered haphazardly. Tucker’s chocolate pastry lay smashed and dusty to one side. Callie tried to marshal her strength for another attempt at escape but, though she managed to push herself away from the wall, she was too limp-muscled to run. What was the point anyway? He would catch her even if she was at her best form, he’d already proven that.

She thought briefly about screaming “
Police!”
and wondered if that would do any good. Would anyone even hear her? And did she want to get further embroiled in this? Bring in the authorities and have this bastard arrested for accosting her? He would tell his story and likely find Tucker anyway. A better way of dealing with him might be to try talking to him reasonably. He hadn’t listened to her so far, but she sensed he wasn’t as threatening as he’d been initially. She’d thrown him off balance and even the most stubborn person would lose conviction if faced with overwhelming evidence. He couldn’t believe she was Teresa forever.

Callie hadn’t noticed her own condition until that moment. Her white dress was filthy, her arms and legs streaked with dust and sweat. She could just imagine what kind of state her hair was in. Only the bracelet on her arm appeared as clean and beautiful as it had been when she’d put it on this morning. She wished she’d left it at the apartment. Good God, was it really valuable?

Gingerly she took a step, realized she wasn’t going to fall apart, then took another, straightening her shoulders. West eyed her carefully.

“I’m going to get my bag,” she said.

“You need some help?”

She threw him a dark look, then hobbled over to the bag. He followed closely, as if afraid she would make another break for it. Like she had the strength.

She picked up the lilies and stuffed them back in the bag. “I’m not interested in talking to you, Mr. Laughlin. I’m not Teresa. I don’t know how many times I can say it.”

“Just take me to the boy and we’ll figure this out. You’re his mother. You hold all the cards. I just want to see him.”

“Bullshit. You clearly want something more.” She slid the carryall up her arm, aware of how heavy it felt. Reaction, indeed. “I’m not anyone’s mother,” she added.
Not anymore.

“You live in one of these buildings?”

“You think I’d take you to my place after you attacked me?” she demanded.

“I didn’t attack you. You ran away. I was—”

“You chased me down and threw me on the ground.”

“You tripped!”

“That’s not how I remember it.”

“Wow.”

“You want to talk? You want to learn who I really am? Fine. Let’s go somewhere else, but I’m not taking you to my place.”

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said.

“Oh, yeah, I believe that.”

He swore softly under his breath, but asked, “Where do you want to go, then?”

“Somewhere public.” She carefully touched her chin. “I’m not feeling the best and I’d like something cool to drink.”

His gaze slid over her tangled hair and dirt-smudged dress. He clearly wanted to argue but he only said, “We’ll go to my hotel.”

“Oh, sure.” Callie almost laughed. Still, it was imperative that she get him as far away from Tucker as possible. As she tried to figure out what to do, the ferry horn blasted twice.

Pointe du Bout. Across the bay.

“We can go to Bakoua Beach, in Pointe du Bout,” Callie said, seeing West’s head swivel sharply to stare at her. “I’ve stayed there,” she explained a trifle defensively. “There’s an outdoor restaurant where we can talk privately. I realize it’s on the other side of the bay but I would feel comfortable there.”

And it’s miles away from Tucker.

West considered a moment. She thought he was going to refuse her, but then he shrugged and said, “Bakoua it is.”

Sometimes you have to make things happen. If you don’t press, if you don’t push, then you’re going to be waiting a lifetime for the good things. The things you deserve. The things you need. I can’t tell you how much time has gone by while others around me keep getting richer, in every way. I’ve got the momentum now, though. I’m aimed, cocked, and ready to fire.

And if some of you fall beneath the spray of my ammo, too fucking bad.

It’s my time to hunt.

Teresa tiptoed inside the house, closing the front door behind herself, cringing as it softly clicked into place, the faint noise sounding like a pistol shot to her own ears. It was early, not the crack of dawn but definitely on the early side for Andre and the handmaidens. She’d stayed out all night on purpose. The walls of the place were closing in on her and at night, sometimes, she bit down hard on the top blanket to keep from screaming, clenching the fabric between her teeth for hours until her jaw weakened and exhaustion overtook her.

It was harder and harder to remember how much she’d loved him. How much he’d meant to her in the beginning. How there was no Teresa without him. She was a vessel that only he could fill. She was empty when she was away from him.

At first she’d thought she was stealing him away from other women, keeping him for herself. She’d wanted him so much. She was happy and triumphant. There was no one on the planet as lucky and loved as she was. Even when he’d been circling the first handmaiden, she hadn’t really been worried. Men were cheaters by nature, but she was confident that he would always come back to her. That this obsession with someone new would only be temporary.

She’d gone to Stephen at his behest, and she’d played the part so well that sometimes she’d even felt like she loved Stephen too. She had, as it turned out, but she hadn’t realized that until much later . . . until it was too late. By then Stephen was gone and it was her fault as much as anyone’s. If she could turn the clock back, she would. She wished her younger self hadn’t believed in Andre so desperately. It would sure as hell have saved her a lot of grief now.

“Sneaking in?”

She froze at his voice, her hand flying to her chest. There were shadows in the house. All the shades were still down and only faint morning light reached around them.

He materialized from one of the open doorways that stretched down the hall, moving like a cat. She caught the glint of the ankh against his bare chest. She held her breath for a moment, then said, “I was . . . doing my job.”

“What about the wife?”

Teresa was “dating” an older married man whose wife held the purse strings. Andre wanted her to take him for all he was worth. In fact, he was downright vicious about it and Teresa knew why. But though the mark was more than willing to rob his wife blind for Teresa, it was difficult for him to slide money out of her control.

And always, always, the wife expected him home in her bed. There was no spending the night between him and his lover, much to his chagrin and Teresa’s relief. Though she couldn’t tell Andre, she was no longer even trying to keep the con going.

“I was at the Santa Monica pier . . .”

“All night? You were supposed to be in my bed.”

“I thought . . .”

“What?”

“I thought you’d chosen Daniella. Last night.”

“Who were you really with?” His tone was light but she knew better than to trust it.

“I wouldn’t be with anyone but you.” This was the truth, at least. She would only be with someone if he ordered it—so far, anyway—though she was planning a new and different future for the next part of her life. She just couldn’t let him know. The consequences would be dire. And he was so good at always discerning the truth that she was certain he would know she wasn’t lying.
Please, God, let him hear the truth. Don’t let this be the time he doesn’t believe me.
“I was at the pier, and then I was driving around.”

“Something bothering you?”

“No . . .”

“That child?”

Her gaze flew to his face. He knew how she felt about the Cantrell boy? It had been so long since she’d had an actual conversation with Andre that she didn’t trust this was real.

“It won’t be long now,” he whispered, running his hands down her arms.

Andre always promised that this life with the other handmaidens was temporary, that there was some ultimate goal that only he and she would share. But she sensed he told the rest of them the same thing.

“Ever since the accident, I’ve lost heart,” she admitted carefully.

“You know it had to be done. You know why.”

She nodded. Jonathan Cantrell had become a problem for Andre.

“You’ll enjoy it again.”

Teresa felt a quiver go down her legs. The worst of it was that he might be right. The high that came from fooling men, using them, bringing about their downfall . . . even the regret she felt over the Cantrell boy and other deaths she’d caused might not be enough to stop her. She had to stop herself or it wouldn’t happen.

To do that, she had to get away from Andre’s encouragement.

“You’ve lost your cross,” he said.

Her hand flew to her throat. No, she hadn’t lost it. She’d squirreled it away in a safe place. She nodded, afraid to speak because she was the only handmaiden to whom he’d given an ankh. It was an honor and a privilege . . . except she didn’t believe in any of it anymore. She didn’t believe in Andre.

His hand clasped hers, hard, and he led her away to his bedroom. The thought of having sex with him made her feet slow, and for once Teresa wished one of the handmaidens was waiting in the room as well, but it was not to be. She and Andre were alone.

As he stripped off her clothes and slipped the chain over her head, she thought of the money and passport she had hidden away. She had to leave soon or forever be in this limbo, away from her son, away from any chance at a normal life.

In her mind’s eye she was inside a silver bird, flying far, far away.

The Bakoua Beach Hotel was renowned, a bit exclusive, and the perfect place to dissuade West from making any more threatening moves. She could even check in for the night if she had to, Callie reasoned. Whatever it took to keep West from Tucker.

She tried to dust herself off as they walked back toward the main road.

“You want to change?” West suggested, but Callie shook her head.

“All I want to do is sit. If you could get a taxi . . . ?”

He probably thought it was odd that she wasn’t concerned with vanity. Maybe he would believe she was just too undone and passive to care. Whatever the case, he didn’t argue. Instead, he suggested that Callie sit on the curb as he signaled for a cab. Eventually, one of the drivers spied them and motioned that he would pick them up after he dropped off his passengers.

A few minutes later the taxi pulled up beside them. West tucked a hand under Callie’s upper arm and helped her to her feet. As soon as she was upright she pulled her arm from his grasp, catching sight of the driver’s faint smile. Probably thought it was a lovers’ quarrel. She couldn’t wait to hear West’s apology when he found out she really was Callie Cantrell.

“Bakoua Beach,
s’il vous plaît
,” Callie said before West could give any other instructions. She didn’t trust him, though she sensed he wasn’t really interested in harming her. Or was that being too trusting?

He climbed in the backseat beside her, and, as the taxi pulled away, Callie let her muscles go limp and leaned her head back against the cushion. The drive was a little more than thirty minutes. She kept her eyes closed throughout the trip, only opening them once to catch a glimpse of the blue-green water of Fort-de-France Bay and the Caribbean Sea beyond between the stretches of hills, palms, and buildings.

When she’d left her cell phone and life behind in Los Angeles, she’d never thought she would need it to prove who she was. She considered pulling her wallet out and showing it to West but decided it would be better to wait until they could speak privately. Besides, she owed him nothing and the more miles they put between Tucker and him the better. If he wanted to keep thinking she was Teresa, have at it. She didn’t need to be helpful.

And besides, she was really growing curious about West Laughlin and his search for his brother’s son. If he was looking for Tucker,
her
Tucker, then she sure as hell wanted to know what this was all about. He wasn’t the only one who sought answers.

The taxi pulled into the sweeping drive in front of the Bakoua Beach. West paid the fare, then guided Callie inside, his hand at her elbow. This time she didn’t pull away as they walked through the open-air lobby, past the woman at the reception desk, around the circular, outdoor bar and to the steps that led to the beach.

The hotel was built into a hillside, the main reception area a level above the pool, the pool above the cabanas, the cabanas and restaurant above the beach. West took Callie to the restaurant, but the amount of stairs she had to climb down took their toll, and by the time he pulled back her chair her knees were trembling.

“Thé glacé,”
he said to the waitress as he sat down across from Callie. He raised two fingers. “
Deux
.”

Iced tea. Callie wondered just how good his command of the French language was. Maybe better than her own?

“You look like you’re going to faint,” West said, his gaze moving over her pale face.

“I never faint.”

“You’re bleeding.”

She followed his gaze and realized a thin line of blood had run down her right leg. “My knee,” she said, pulling up her skirt to above the injury. The skin was scraped and there was a small, deeper cut in her flesh.

He was silent for long moments.

“What?” she asked.

He didn’t answer but she could tell he was disturbed that she was hurt. Well, good. He should be. Taking her own fate into her hands Callie dug through her carryall and pulled out her wallet, unclasped it, and shoved her California driver’s license in front of his face.

The iced tea came as he was looking at her picture. “Take it,” she told him, slapping the wallet in his hands. “Rob me blind.”

Callie reached for her glass and sat back. She glanced over at him, focusing at the dark, silky hair at his crown as he continued to gaze down at her picture. When she felt as if an eternity had come and gone and still he didn’t speak, she lost patience and demanded, “Well?”

His brows were knit in concentration, and a trickle of sweat ran down the curve of his jaw.

“See my name and picture?” she demanded.

He lifted his eyes and glanced at the bracelet. Then he looked at her identification again.

Callie realized, in a distant part of her mind, that this was the longest she’d gone without thinking about Sean since his death. She stuffed that thought aside to dissect it later and said, “If my license is good enough for the state of California, it ought to be good enough for you.”

He didn’t answer.

Callie fought back another smart comment, deciding if this was a silent battle of wills, she could play. He ignored her credit cards and the crinkled edges of the euros shoved into her wallet. His expression gave no clue to his thoughts.

At long last he said, “You applied for this driver’s license less than a year ago.”

“It’s a renewal.” At his renewed silence she couldn’t help herself from adding, “It is. I’ve lived in California since I was twenty. Before I was Callie Cantrell I was Callie Shipley.”

“You’re married?”

“I’m a widow.”

He scowled and instantly his behavior changed. “I know,” he said darkly. “I know what you did.”

Callie narrowed her gaze at him. “You know I’m not this Teresa you’re looking for.”

“Then you’re her twin.”

“Fine,” she snapped.

He made a sharp movement with his arm, closed her wallet, and dropped it back into her carryall. “I could almost believe you if I didn’t know better,” he said. “That lost and miserable act is hard to resist.”

“I think you’re the kind of person who can’t admit they’re wrong.”

He inclined his head. “Probably. But you have the bracelet.”

“I’m not Teresa.”

“Where’s your son?” he demanded.

Her gut twisted. Carefully, lest emotion got the better of her, she said, “The only son I ever had is dead.”

His head jerked up and he gave her a sharp look. “Dead?”

“Don’t worry. He’s not the boy you’re looking for.” Her voice was brittle. “He was
my
son. He has nothing to do with you and this Teresa person. He only mattered to me.” She swallowed hard, sensing she could break down if she wasn’t careful.

He was watching her with a mixture of fascination and horror, as if he couldn’t turn away.

“I don’t know you,” she insisted. “I don’t know the boy you’re looking for.”

“Why did you come here with me, then?”

“Did I have a choice?” She was outraged. “What are you talking about?”

“You haven’t tried to call the police. You didn’t want me to go to your place, and you took me all the way to this particular hotel.”

“Don’t put this on me,” Callie said, slightly alarmed.

“You’ve got some agenda going. If you’re not Teresa, you’re involved at some level, so start telling the truth.”

“I
am
telling you the truth! I’m Callie Cantrell.”

“Okay.”

Callie stopped short. “Okay?”

“If you’re Callie Cantrell, tell me about her. Convince me you’re not the woman who married my brother and had a child with him. You’re not the woman who took off after Stephen’s death, with the bracelet, maybe to avoid questions about his death.”

“What?”

“You’re not Teresa DuPres Laughlin, even though you look just like her.”

Callie suddenly understood West Laughlin’s smoldering anger. Shaken, she said, “I’m not her. I was married to Jonathan Cantrell. We had a son. Sean. Jonathan and Sean both died in a car accident on Mulholland almost exactly a year ago. I have a series of scars down my right side from the same accident that killed them. I’ve been told I was lucky I survived, but I don’t feel lucky. I feel miserable. And lost. And sometimes—most times—I wish I’d died with them.” They stared at each other. She could tell her words got to him and added, “I’m sorry about your brother, but I don’t know Teresa.”