To the Limit (15 page)

The momentary silence on the other end of the line told her he was as shocked as she was that she'd called.

"Am I growing on you, cupcake?"

She closed her eyes, rubbed at her temples. "Yeah, like a wart. Listen, forget I offered."

"Not a chance. Random acts of kindness don't roll my way all that often."

"Can't imagine—what with your stellar personality and all."

"Yeah. It's a real shocker, isn't it?"

She grinned—caught herself and sobered up. She was not going to let him suck her into liking him. "Look, I just feel a little responsible for you getting hurt is all. It seemed like the right thing to do. Now do you want me to find you a room or not?"

"Appreciate the offer, but I'm fine."

"Which is why you can hardly walk."

"OK, let me ease your troubled mind on that count. The knee was bad long before Mr. Football clipped me or the phantom tried to run us over. It's just riled up a bit. It'll be fine in a day or so. But, if you want to massage it—or any other little thing that needs attention—hey, I'm all over that idea."

"Good-bye, McClain."

"So that would be a no?"

She hung up on him. Laid her head back against the old dusty-smelling sofa and swore under her breath when she realized she was grinning again.

Mac stared at his cell and smiled.

He
was
growing on her. Even better, he now had her cell phone number.

He pulled up his call log and there it was. After transferring the number to his phone book, he punched it in.

"What do you want?" she asked with the weariness of the aged.

"Just wanted to thank you—right this time-—for offering to find me a room. It was sweet."

"If that's what you want to believe," she said, sounding grouchy.

"Yeah. That's what I want to believe. Thanks. Get some rest."

"And you'll give me a call if you get a lead on Tiff, right?"

He laughed and this time he disconnected first.

Two hours later, he was wishing he'd taken her up on her offer of finding a room. The notion of sinking into a queen-size bed in an air-conditioned room—right after he'd had a long, cool shower and soaked his throbbing knee in an ice bath—held more and more merit as the night wore on.

He pulled into a parking space on Whitehead, windows down, eyes open for any sign of the Tiff. The heat of the Key West night was beyond muggy. What breeze had stirred the air had gone down with the sun and now, around midnight, music, laughter, and the mingled aromas from the open-air restaurants permeated the air as thick as the humidity.

He was beat. He was miserable and he'd cruised every front street, backstreet, and alley in between hoping to catch a glimpse of Tiffany Clayborne.

Like a good little PI, he'd checked his answering machine an hour ago. There'd been a message from Agnes Boudreau. Agnes paid well and on time. Agnes was also a whack job, and no matter how many times he'd tried to convince her that her husband of forty-five years really did play poker with the guys one Thursday night a month, she insisted the "old goat" was cheating on her.

Mac had another message from a company wanting a number of background checks on potential employees. He'd make sure he called them back in the morning, as it sounded like a nice, steady stream of income.

Roger Edwards had also checked in wanting a progress report. Mac called back and left a message that summed it up in four words. "Still working on it."

His gaze scanned the busy streets.

If I were a spoiled, bored little rich girl, where would I be ?

Like it or not, he wasn't going to find out languishing in this heap of a car.

He downed three more ibuprofen and sucked it up. Then he hit the pavement and limped into every bar he could find, flashed the Tiff's picture, and posed the two-hundred-K question: "Have you seen her?"

It was a long fricking night.

Chapter 9

A
muggy Key West breeze blew in
through the open hotel window. Tiffany sat on the bed, chewing on her nails as she eavesdropped on a conversation between Lance and his bass player taking place in the living area just outside the bedroom door. Abe Gorman's voice was like Abe. Harsh and hard. As mean as the licks he plucked from his bass guitar.

Lance's voice was soft, lilting. When he sang, the sound of it was mesmerizing. Hypnotic. She could listen to him sing for hours. Only he hadn't done any singing since Club Asylum. Instead, he'd canceled dates—like the ones in Atlantic City. All he seemed to care about now was partying. Partying so hard, sometimes it scared her. Sometimes
he
scared her. So much that like now, when she was almost sober, she thought about going home.

Only at home there was no one who cared where she was or what she did, unless she did something to embarrass them.

She fought back tears of anger and pain and humiliation and wondered if she'd merely exchanged one form of degradation for another.

"You heard this guy ask about her?" she heard Lance ask Abe.

"I just said so, didn't I?" Abe sounded mad. "And he was flashing her picture around in the bar. This is all going to crash on us. I can feel it."

"Chill, man."

"Fuck chill. I've been listening to you. I've been letting you play mastermind, Reno, following your orders like a goddamn flunky. So help me, if you blow this—"

"Shut up. Just shut the fuck up," Lance growled. "I know what I'm doing."

"You'd by God better."

"Or what? You going to split? Fine. Go. Makes more for me."

"Just make sure you don't screw this up. I don't know why you haven't taken care of h—"

"Shut up, goddammit! I'll do what needs to be done in my own good time."

Tiffany had heard them fight before. It always gave her a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. She couldn't see Abe, but she knew exactly what he looked like. His face would be blotchy red. Even his shaved head would flood with color. The heavy Celtic cross he wore in his left ear would be flipping around like a kite tail caught in gale winds.

Straight, she despised Abe and the gross tattoos he wore all over his body. Stoned, she managed to ignore him. She didn't like what Lance often threatened to let Abe do to her. Sometimes she actually believed Lance would let Abe use her that way if she displeased him.

So she did everything she could to keep Lance happy. She gave him money. She did his drugs. Anything to keep him loving her. Sometimes she wondered why. But then he'd get her stoned again and she knew why. She needed him to love her. He told her so. He loved her like no one ever had.

"Tiffany. Hey, Tiffany, you awake, baby?"

She jumped when she realized Lance was calling her. Was afraid he'd caught her listening, which was something she shouldn't do. Lately, she felt like that around Lance. Like she was always on the edge of pissing him off. She didn't want to mess things up between them. She didn't want to blow it— like she had when he'd hit her last night. It hadn't been the first time, but it always came as a surprise.

On a deep breath, she walked to the door, opened it slowly, hoping he'd notice the trouble she'd taken cleaning up. She'd dressed up for him, taken pains with her makeup. She hadn't slept after they'd come back to the hotel around three, and whatever it was he'd given her had pretty much worn off, so she wasn't so messed up.

She checked the clock. It was almost 5:00 a.m. Only two hours later. Yeah. She was almost straight. Lance said she disgusted him when she was stoned and yet he was always giving her stuff to make her high.

"Hi," she said, walking to his side.

Lance looked her up and down, his beautiful curtain of waist-length black hair hanging loose and flowing over his bare shoulders. He wore only a pair of cargo shorts. His feet were bare. God, he was gorgeous. Even his toes were sexy. He wasn't much taller than she was—maybe five-eight, five-nine—but he was bigger than life with his poet's mouth and artist's hands. His skin was a soft caramel color, like he spent hours in the sun.

His eyes were as black as his hair. Exotic. Mysterious. And when his full lips curved up into a smile, she felt like crying because she loved him so much.

"Sweet," he said, reaching for her. "You look real sweet, babe. Did you get all styled up for me?"

She nodded and snuggled up under the arm he wrapped around her shoulders. He smelled like expensive cologne, the cologne she'd bought him. And he felt so solid and warm. So loving as he nuzzled her neck, then kissed her long and deep.

The first time she'd seen him she'd fallen in love. Three weeks ago? Four? She didn't remember. All she cared about was the way he looked at her. The way he made her feel loved for the first time in her life.

"Abe says some dude was looking all over town for you. You got another guy on the side? Do I need to be jealous?"

She looked up at him through heavily made up eyes, tried to get a read on his temper. When he was loving, she felt wrapped up by him. Protected. Secure. But his moods sometimes shifted like shadows. Sometimes he'd fly mad at the slightest provocation. Like he had last night at the Hog's Breath. He didn't look mad now. He just looked curious.

"You know there's no one else for me but you. That bartender guy—Jimmy? Hey, I just thought, you know, that you'd like to party with him. That's the only reason I asked him to come back here. Because of you."

Lance stroked her hair. "That's what I needed to hear, babe. Tell her what this guy looked like, Abe."

Abe pinned her with a mean glare. "Six-foot or so. Brown hair. Put together. Maybe thirty-something. Walked with a limp. Smelled like a cop to me. Had that look about him."

"He sound like anyone you know?" Lance asked, still stroking her cheek, though his eyes hardened as he searched hers.

She shook her head. "No. I mean ... I don't know. That's not much to go on."

"Could be someone your daddy hired to find you, you think?"

The mention of her father made her stiffen. "My dad could care less about where I am."

Lance hugged her. "But he cares about your money, doesn't he? Enough that he might send someone looking for you?"

She shrugged. "I suppose. I don't know." But she did know. Money was the only thing her father cared about. He sure didn't care about her.

Abe exchanged a look with Lance. In the corner of the room, Billie ... Billie
something
slouched in a chair, sound asleep. His guitar lay across his lap; a piece of sheet music lay on the floor at his feet. She couldn't remember his last name. He never said much. And he never partied with them. Mostly he just played his guitar and wrote his precious music. And except for the occasional glance that both accused and judged and sometimes made her feel shame, he left her alone.

"Think it's time to move on." Lance walked away from her toward the bedroom of the hotel suite.

"But we just got here yesterday," she said, and immediately regretted it when it came out like a whine. "I mean I... I thought we were going to go out and party again today."

"Plans change, darlin'." Lance smiled, but without affection. "You don't want to take a chance on Daddy putting an end to our road trip, do you?"

Yes. No. Maybe. She didn't know anymore.

"You know he'd make me leave if we went back to Palm Beach. I love you, babe, but I'd have to go. Your old man's machine—hell, it would roll right over me."

He was right. And her father's stooge, Richard Edwards, the bastard, would make sure something happened to convince Lance to go. Including paying him off.

And yet she was pretty scared. She'd never been a cabbage head. She'd been particular about drugs. Had never done the hard stuff. Lance made her try all kinds of shit.

"Maybe I just need to take a little break," she said carefully. "I could catch up with you later, you know?"

"Now you're talking stupid." Lance's eyes were hard as he drew her into his arms. "I need you with me, babe. Always."

His embrace tightened until he was hurting her.

"And I say when and if you go anywhere, got it?"