To the Edge (15 page)

"Oh God. " He grunted out a pained laugh. "Spare me the gory details. What is she? A hundred and fifty?"

She laughed, too, as he pulled a chair out for her and sat down.

"Doorknob?" she asked with a grin, and shook her head. He was smiling when he sat down beside her and met the amusement in her eyes.

And for a moment, one unguarded, unplanned, unexpected moment, they shared something that didn't start with resentment or end in anger. Common ground. And damn if it
wasn't
a comfortable place to be.

Too soon, awareness set in. Awareness of the moment. Of the circumstances that had brought them together. Of an undying sexual tension neither of them wanted to admit to but kept creeping in to skew the picture anyway. She was the first one to look away and left him feeling...

What
the hell
did
he feel?

He leaned back in his chair, scraped a palm across his jaw. Nothing. At least nothing he wanted to admit to. Nothing he could afford to even consider.

"I don't like this cloistered tent any more than I liked the crowd inside, " he said abruptly. "How long before we can get out of here?"

Her expression carefully blank, she lifted a water glass to her lips. Sipped. "I believe we're looking at five courses. My speech runs twenty minutes. You do the math. "

The edge was back in her voice. No doubt in response to his grumbling. Fine. Good, in fact They were back on familiar ground. Hostile. He'd always functioned best under enemy fire.

He kept an eye on the crowd throughout dinner, made limited small talk when absolutely pressed, and assessed any number of variables that might present a threat. The longer the night dragged on, the higher the probability of an occurrence; so said the law of averages.

So he kept his guard and his focus, alternately scoping out his surroundings, avoiding Birdlady Baylor's come-hither glances, and watching Jillian. He had to admit he was impressed by the way she wooed the cultured crowd with her presentation. She had them laughing one minute, misty-eyed the next... and riveted all the way through.

When she left the podium to appreciative applause, he stood and pulled her chair out for her. They had to sit for another thirty minutes as she was besieged by no small number of well-wishers who wanted to shake her hand, buss her check, and, in the case of at least two nefarious old gents, look down her dress.

Boys will be boys,
he thought drily, and gave her credit for handling the old coots with good-natured forbearance.

Finally, she stood, giving him the cue to leave.

"Thank God. Baylor's locked on me like a tractor beam and heading this way. Let's make tracks. "

With a hand on her elbow, he hurried her out of the tent and across the lawn. They'd made it back inside the mansion and were about to clear the common room when she put on the skids.

"I need to stop in the ladies' room again before we leave. "

He slanted her an irritated look. "You have a problem, or what?"

She actually blushed. "I get a little nervous when I do public speaking, OK?"

"You are
not
serious. You make a career of appearing in public. "

She gave him a withering look and turned down the corridor that led to the ladies' powder room... which, unfortunately, gave Hannah Baylor an opening.

Shit.

Old hawk claws had him cornered between the ice sculpture and the champagne fountain before he could make a run for it. She cut to the chase; he'd give her that. She was blatantly offering up a private charitable event involving a bed, a vivid imagination, and an amazing amount of stamina when he finally spotted Jillian returning to the room.

Thank you, Gezus.

Nolan was in the process of trying to excuse himself when he got his first good look at Jillian's face. The vivid green eyes searching for and finally connecting with his were filled with terror—stark and raw.

His adrenaline spiked. She was in trouble.

He headed across the room at a jog, his hand automatically reaching for the gun inside his tux jacket. When he reached her, she latched onto his hand with a viselike grip.

"It's... oh God, Garrett. It's dead. "

The extent of Jillian's shock and horror resonated in the tremor of her whisper, in the grasp of her fingers as she reached for him.

Nolan dragged her against him and looked down. The hand that wasn't clamped on his arm held a box and a crumpled piece of paper. The box was open, and yeah, he had to agree. The songbird inside was dead, its delicate neck broken, its small head twisted at a gruesome angle.

He pulled Jillian protectively to his side and cut across the room toward a small alcove not ten feet away, shielding her from the crowd that was slowly tuning in to her dilemma. Once there, he pried the paper out of her hand and read the typewritten note—and that's when he really got pissed.

There was a little girl, who had a little curl,

right in the middle of her forehead.

When she was good, she was very, very good,

but when she was bad, she was horrid.

It's going to be horrid, Jillian.

Before I'm finished with you,

you'll wish you were dead.

You 're going to get your wish. I promise.

Sonofabitch.

While she pressed her face against his chest, Nolan scanned the faces in the crowd for any giveaways... looks of guilt, elation, satisfaction. Not that he really expected to spot anything telling. Chances were, whoever had done this was long gone, but he searched just the same.

When he turned back to Jillian, her face was pale as chalk. "Who gave this to you?"

"One of the waiters. As I left the ladies' room. "

"Would you recognize him?"

When she nodded, Nolan got the attention of one of the in-house security guards, filled him in, and asked him to assemble all the wait and catering staff. Five minutes later, Brad Herman was one freaked-out waiter as Nolan hammered him with questions.

Herman was a college student. And Nolan was going to personally see to it that he was going to be more terrified than Jillian by the time they finished questioning him.

"I swear to God," the kid insisted, his voice rising, "I didn't know what was in it. Someone found the package in the kitchen."

Herman's gaze darted from Nolan to the guard. "Mrs. Baylor.. .hell, she'd been in and out of the kitchen all night, fussing over everything from the canapes to the silver. One of the chefs, Robert, spotted the box. I guess he figured she'd left it by mistake, like she'd meant to give it to Ms. Kincaid as a gift for speaking or something."

He dragged a shaking hand through his spiky hair. "He shoved it at me, told me to find Mrs. Baylor and give it to her or she'd be setting fire to his ass instead of the chafing dish. I don't ask questions. I just do what I'm told, ya know?

"So I made tracks. Couldn't find Mrs. Baylor, but I spotted Ms. Kincaid comin' out of the can, so I gave it to her. I mean, hell, it had her name on it, so why not give it to her? I didn't know what was in it. Swear to God. I just did what I was told."

The kid was a pawn. Nolan was convinced of that. He was too scared to be anything else. Just like Nolan was convinced that whoever left the package was long gone. He wanted to question the kitchen staff a little more, but he didn't expect them to know any more than the waiter.

Nolan glanced across the room to where Jillian now sat on an antique satin sofa, Hannah Baylor at her side, duly horrified and surprisingly motherly as she held Jillian's hand. The worry on Hannah's face made her look all of the hundred and fifty years old he'd suspected her to be.

Jillian looked ready to crash. He needed to get her out of here, and he would, as soon as he rattled a few more chains. Unfortunately, though, no one in the kitchen had seen anyone leave the package. Aside from the head chef, they were cater-waiters and prep cooks, part-timers working for tuition and rent and used to the habits of the rich and famous. They'd been running their legs off to make sure all the silver platters stayed filled. They were the hired help. They didn't make eye contact. They did their job and they followed orders, no questions asked.

"Might as well take her home." The guard, a Steven Seagal wannabe, complete with ponytail, nodded toward Jillian. "We'll do a final sweep, see what we come up with, but my guess is it'll be a bust."

"If you find anything, let me know."

"Do you want me to call this in to the police?"

Nolan shook his head. "I'll call the detective in charge and fill him in."

As Nolan headed toward Jillian, a sick feeling churned in his gut. Whoever had done this had just proven, bodyguard or no bodyguard, they could get to her anytime they wanted. Which meant only one thing.

From now on, he and Jillian Kincaid were going to be as tight as white on rice. She didn't breathe without him knowing it. She didn't take a leak without him close enough to hand her toilet paper. Didn't change her clothes without him on hand to work the zipper.

She thought she was pissed about him living with her now? Just wait until she realized how chummy they were going to get before this was over.

Green eyes met his across the room. Soft as an ocean swell at sunset.

His heart did that stumble thing. Skippy twitched to life.

Christ.

Why couldn't Darin Kincaid have had a son?

Some days it wasn't just his past John couldn't remember. Today was one of those days. Tonight was one of those nights. Sometimes, when the headaches came, they brought more than pain. Stole more than his strength. They brought confusion. Like thieves, they stole hours and the most recent pieces of his life, disconnecting him from even the minuscule moments that had become his existence.

He stared at the cracked ceiling of his motel room and tried to remember... anything. He'd had a headache today. At least he thought it had been today. Must have been today ... late afternoon. Maybe.

He rubbed his temples. Closed his eyes and tried to remember. He'd gotten day work... yeah. With that landscaping crew out of Jupiter. It was one of the few types of work available to him. No ID required. No questions asked. Payment in cash.

He'd been trimming palms. And it
had
been daylight.

But now it was dark. He was in his room. Lying on his bed, damp and sour with sweat. And he had no idea how he'd gotten here.

The door opened.

He reared up, his heart rate rocketing.

Mary.

He let out a breath. Of relief or forbearance, he wasn't sore which. It didn't matter. He didn't care.

He'd given her an extra key. Because she'd asked, he supposed. Because no one else asked him for anything. No one gave him anything. Except her.

But even Mary took.

"Baby. What's wrong?" Her eyes filled with concern as she crossed the room and tossed her purse aside. "Oh, John.
"
Her hands shook when they touched him. Caressed his face. Smoothed her fingers through his damp hair where he sat. Alone. Drifting through a cobwebby maze of nothingness
.
"It's all right. It's all right. I'll make it all right."

She pressed his face to her breasts, Warmth. Life. Real. Too real for him to deal with right now. He was shaking, too, when he shoved her away.

She clung to him. Needy. Cloying.

"Hurt me," she whispered, and pushed him to his back. Straddled him.

Her fingers quivered as she reached for his zipper, cupped him in her hands, her soft, artful hands, and begged him to punish her for not being everything he needed.

Afterward, she cried.

He rolled away from her, stared dispassionately at the bedside table and the book of designer matches lying there. He didn't remember seeing them before. Didn't remember putting them there. For a brief moment, he wondered at the name—
Mar-A-Lago—
before
dismissing it and Mary and falling into a fitful sleep.

11

Nolan tossed back the last of his root
beer and cast a glance into the living area. Jillian sat on the sofa in her sexy designer gown, her knees drawn up to her chest, her bare toes hugging the edge of the leather cushion. She looked bruised. And agonizingly vulnerable. Dazed even, like Cinderella had just discovered Prince Charming was an ax murderer.

Nolan let out a puff of air and resisted the urge to walk over and give her the hug she obviously needed. He loosened another stud in his shirt instead. He'd ditched the jacket and tie the minute they walked into the penthouse. The studs on
his cuffs had gone the same way as he'd rolled up his sleeves and headed straight for the fridge. He'd needed to wash the taste of the evening out of his mouth. - It was close to midnight. They'd been back at her penthouse less than five minutes and she hadn't said a word. The place echoed with the same silence that had filled the car on the drive back.

Frustrated, Nolan thought back to the dead ends at Mar-A-Lago and traded his soda for the glass of wine he'd just poured for her. He considered downing it himself in one
deep
swallow or hunting up a bottle of something stronger. He'd used lamer excuses to tie one on. Sunset. Sunrise. Self-pity.