OVER HER DEAD BODY: The Bliss Legacy - Book 2 (20 page)

All Paul had to do was sit in his office and count the cash. Was that asking too much? She didn’t think so.

At the Jasper, she parked in front of Paul’s room and turned off the car. For a second or two she rested her head back and did some easy breathing. God, she was tired. She felt like a slug, a gigantic Alice-in-Wonderland kind of slug—with lead weights on its back.

She pulled herself out of the car.

Paul would come around. She’d make sure of it. Maybe the porn business was more competitive, maybe the margins weren’t what they used to be, but they were better than most businesses. She’d remind him of that, calm him down, and be back to Mayday in time for dinner. Tonight she’d check out the cellar. Thinking about the night ahead, the drain on her limited energy, a wave of weariness washed over her. There were days when all she wanted to do was sleep, but whenever she did lie down, the babies took up hip-hop, and she couldn’t sleep anyway.

She stopped at number eleven and glanced around. God, what a sleepy hollow this place was. How the hell they stayed in business was a miracle. A pickup pulled in next to her and she watched a man get out.

Whoa. Not bad. Not bad at all.
Longish brown hair jutted out from a baseball cap, but clean, thick hair, not the straggly kind that signaled Balding-In-Process. He wore jeans, good ones, and a gray sweat jacket, both tight enough to accent a body designed more for show than clothes.

When he noticed her scrutiny, he smiled at her, slow and direct, the kind of smile she’d expect from a man who looked good and knew it, the kind of smile that said, if you like this, you should see me without my clothes on.

Erica’s kind of man.

She smiled back, rapped a couple of times on Paul’s door, and followed Mr. Should-be-naked’s tight butt as it headed to the motel office.

Paul opened the door, poked his head out, and looked around. “I thought we agreed you weren’t going to come here anymore.”

“I wouldn’t, if you weren’t sitting in this room worrying yourself into a frenzy.”

After another furtive scan of the motel parking lot, he pulled her into the room, closed the door, and scowled at her. “I never liked this crazy idea of yours in the first place, but I am
not
worrying. All I’m doing is examining our other options.” He walked to the window and closed the blinds.

Erica rolled her eyes and sat on the edge of the bed. “We don’t have ‘other’ options, brother mine. And we’ve been over this—and over this.” She tried to sound soothing instead of pissed off. “We come up with the cash in three weeks, or Starrier—and the Starks along with it—are loan-shark meat.” She sat up straighter and planted her palms near the small of her back. “They won’t even give us an extension.”

Paul gave her a sharp look. “You called Lester?”

“I called Lester
again
.
” She reined in her impatience—barely. “And I got the same answer. Have the money to them before November or else. The ‘or else’ bit I leave to your imagination, but I hear cement shoes are still a popular choice.” She lifted a shoulder, tired of going over this, then got to her feet. “We’ve got one chance, Paul, and that’s Mayday House. Once we find out exactly who was involved, we—”

A knock on the door interrupted. They both stared at it. Erica frowned. “You expecting company?”

“No.” Paul made for the door. “Probably the room cleaners. I’ll get rid of them.”

He opened the door.

A split second later, Erica’s parking lot fantasy man was in the room, with a gun jammed in Paul’s ribs. He kicked the door closed behind him.

“What the hell—” Paul started.

“Shut up and step back. Near the woman.”

Paul did as he was told, gripped Erica’s hand, and urged her to stand behind him. The man scanned the meager room, visibly relaxed when he’d confirmed they were the only ones there.

When he waved the gun, Erica noticed it had a silencer on it, at least what she thought was a silencer; the barrel looked overly long and thick. Terrifying. She tried to swallow what felt like a tennis ball in her throat, couldn’t take her eyes off the gun or the man holding it.

He looked at her and smiled.

Erica moved from shock to a forced wariness. “If it’s money you want—”

“We’ll get to what I want soon enough. Sit. Both of you”—he gestured with the gun to the two chairs settled against the Formica-covered table near the window—“and flatten your hands, palms down, on the table.” When neither of them moved, he lowered his voice and pointed the gun in Paul’s face. “Now.”

They sat and placed their hands as instructed. Erica told herself to get a grip, stay calm, when what she felt like doing was throwing up. “What do you want?” she asked.

He studied her. “Maybe just to meet the famous Starks. Erica and Paul, right? Starrier Productions.” The smile dropped from his face. “Then again maybe I’m interested in what they’re doin’ hanging around a crappy burg like this.” He jerked his head toward the town outside the covered window.

Erica forced herself to think, not easy when someone had a gun barrel pointed at your brother and your elephant-sized stomach made a better-than-average target. She sucked in some courage. “So you know us. Who the hell are you?”

“Mace”—he flattened his lips—“your new best friend.”

“Yeah, well, we’ve got all the friends we need. So you can get the hell out of here, before I scream down the house.”

Mace took one step forward, grabbed Paul’s wrist, pressed his hand flat on the table, and shot off his little finger. The whoosh of the silencer made less noise than a popped champagne cork. He stepped back, looked down at her. “You were saying?”

Flash frozen, Erica gaped, registering a gush of blood, absolute silence, an odd burning smell, and one of the babies giving her a hard kick to the left of her belly button.

Paul’s mouth opened but not a sound came out; his face chalked to a gray-white slate. Expressionless. In a slow-motion gesture, his eyes wide, he clasped his bloodied hand and pulled it to his chest. Rivers of red spilled over his knuckles and down the front of his white shirt.

When she found her voice, she cried, “Paul, oh my God.” She looked at Mace. “I’ve got to help him.”

“Sit,” he snarled.

“Erica, don’t—the babies,” Paul gasped, clutching his hand. “Do what he says.”

“Good suggestion.” He glanced at Paul, looking amused. “They say a guy can bleed out from a finger shot. Never seen it myself, though. Probably damn slow, but it might be interesting.” He sat on the edge of the bed, the same spot Erica had been in moments ago, and appeared perfectly relaxed— perfectly dangerous. “Be a good girl, answer some questions, and I’ll let you get him a towel. If you’re not a good girl, I’ll make you a matched set.”

Erica glanced at the bathroom, then back at the animal on the bed. She took a couple of breaths. “What do you want?”

“Like I said, I want to know what the hell you’re doing here.”

Erica looked at Paul. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m pregnant—with twins. I came to Mayday to get some help—with my decision about the babies.” She hesitated. “I thought Mayday House could help me arrange an adoption—a private adoption.”

His eyes skimmed over her, and his tongue slid from one side of his lower lip to the other. The gesture left the lips glistening under the room’s harsh overhead light. Without a word, he pointed the gun at her belly. “You want to get rid of the kids”—he lifted a brow—“I can help you with that.”

Her blood frozen in her veins, Erica stared into his eyes, glassy, ruthless eyes set in grim purpose. He would kill her, kill her babies. Babies until this split second she hadn’t even been sure she’d wanted. She heard Paul gasp, but her own voice had congealed somewhere low in her throat and was as paralyzed as the rest of her. She dropped her eyes to the gun, tried to swallow, to think.

“Jesus, Erica, tell him!” Paul roared. “Nothing’s worth those babies.”

“We’re trying to, uh, find a … sister.” The words bumped into one another, like rocks in a tumbler.

Her answer didn’t make him happy. He lowered the gun and drew a circle with it—around her stomach. “Want to try again?”

“It’s the truth,” Paul said. “She’s telling the truth.” He was still clutching his hand, still obviously in pain, but he was looking at the man on the bed without flinching. “We got a call—”

“What kind of call?” His gaze sharpened.

“From the woman who used to run the house. She said we had a sister. That she’d been adopted out.” He stopped, his face a ghastly white. Covered in blood from his chest to his waist, he held his damaged hand to his heart.

“The woman who called. What was her name?”

“Weaver,” Erica said. “Mary Weaver.”

He nodded his head slowly, as if agreeing with himself. But even though he looked lost in thought, he didn’t relax his grip on the gun.

Erica found her voice and another shred of courage—and considering it was all she had, she decided to use them. “Now if it’s all the same to you, I’d like to get my brother a towel.” Amazingly her voice was steady.

Using the gun he gestured distractedly toward the bathroom. “Don’t do anything stupid, or Pauly here will lose the rest of his hand.”

Erica was back in seconds. Busying herself with tending to Paul, she glared at the man on the bed. “Now you know our story; what’s yours?” She wrapped the towel securely around Paul’s hand, tucked the edge in to form as tight a bandage as she could, and set his elbow on the table, bending it to ensure he held the bleeding finger up. Not good enough, but it had to do until she could get them out of here.

“Well, now, it looks like me and you are after the exact same thing.”

She didn’t get it. “You’re looking for a sister?”

“Maybe.” His amused expression soured. “The thing is, my
sister
is worth a lot of money, and I’m betting yours is, too.” His foxy eyes fixed on her face. “I wouldn’t try to shit me, if I were you, feed me crap about a family reunion. I know all about the red ink your company’s drowning in.” He sneered. “You’re here for cash. The question is how much.”

Erica ran a hand over the lives in her body, her own flesh enfolding them, and knew she couldn’t risk a lie. Then she glanced at her brother, saw the blood coloring the cheap white towel. Paul looked ready to faint, his anxious eyes flitting between Mace and her.

”You’re right,” she said. “It’s the red ink. We owe people. And if we can find out who this sister is, get a line on her mother, the ink turns to black.”

“So the mommy’s got money, huh?” He grinned, as if enjoying himself, his shitty rhyme.

“Plenty of it.” She stopped, her heart crazy in her chest. Okay, she was guessing, a guess based on Mary’s slurred description of the mother as “a special and famous someone who did many good things.” Where there was fame, there was money— that was Erica’s take on things.

“So why the hell should she give any of it to you?” His gaze coiled around her.

Erica swore she heard the clang of a cash register in his empty skull. “She owes us.”

“How’s that?”

Erica took a breath, prepared to answer. But Paul answered for her, his voice surprisingly calm. “Because she destroyed our family, quite possibly murdered our father. And we believe it’s time she paid for it.”

Erica watched as Mace blinked, then blinked again, as if he had trouble understanding his own thoughts. After a few seconds, he stood, stuffed the gun in the waistband of his slacks, and smiled.

“I like the last part,” he said. “The bit about getting paid?” His cold eyes made his smile a sham when he looked at her and Paul in turn. “Meet your new partner.”

“Dinah must have said
something
,” Keeley said to Gus. Fed up with the paper overload she’d been buried in for hours, she opened the office file cabinet and stuffed in the files she’d just gone through. She left the next stack on her desk.

She turned then to face Gus. He sat on the settee that had sagged under Mary’s office window for as long as Keeley could remember—always stacked high with magazines, flyers, and her to-be-filed files. Keeley had cleared it earlier this afternoon, while the blessed painters had been busy bringing the hall and kitchen colors into the twenty-first century.

“Not only did she not say anything, she asked me to leave.” His mouth shifted toward a smile, then shifted away. “Practically threw me out the door.” He put an ankle on one knee and grasped it with his hand.

Keeley walked over and sat beside him. “I assume that’s a new experience for you—being asked to leave?” He slanted her a gaze, his serious eyes—as usual—a curious mix of somber and heat. “My guess is Dinah needs time to think things over. Make up her own mind about what to do.”

“Do you think she’ll tell the truth?”

“I think she’ll do what she thinks is right for Dinah.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the best I’ve got.” He let go of the ankle he was holding and put both feet on the floor. “She’ll call. Eventually. If she doesn’t, I’ll call her. We’ll take it from there.”

Keeley rested her arm along the back of the settee and shifted so she could face him. She had to get what was bothering her out in the open, because if she didn’t, either her brain would burst or her heart would break. It was a lose/lose situation either way. “About Mary …”

His gaze met hers, quiet and waiting.

“If what she told Christiana was true—and I’m not saying it was—and there was some kind of, uh, situation and she did
accidentally
…
kill Christiana’s father …” She rubbed her cheek, hesitated, swam in her own guilt, then pushed forward. “The thing is, Mary wasn’t a big woman. She’d have needed help to, uh, get rid of the body.” Lord, she sounded like a third-rate detective.

“Yes, I think she would have.”

“And that would mean someone else was involved.”

“Yes, it would.”

Keeley’s heart did an odd, irregular thump in her chest. She attributed it to disloyalty, the discomfort of assuming aloud Mary had done something wrong. Or maybe it was nervousness about how Gus would react if she were honest about her thoughts. It felt most like a bad omen, a jungle drum warning of more trouble ahead. “Dinah, maybe? That would make sense of her denying she had a daughter—and her support of Mayday House all these years.”