Volcano (26 page)

“I don't suppose you could tap into their files and verify that's what they've done, could you?” he asked without much hope.

“That's a matter of public record. I can do that without violating client confidentiality, although using PC&M records would be a lot faster.” Finally recovering some of her senses, Penelope glared at him. “Why should I?”

He shrugged. “In the interest of justice, maybe? Would you let Michel's murderer go free just to get even with me?”

Damn, he was good. Penelope turned her attention back to the window. “Jacobsen wouldn't have personally murdered the poor man. He would have hired someone. Chances are, they'll never find the real murderer.”

“We know who's signing the checks,” he reminded her. “If the Foundation is involved, those two Russians and a lawyer on the island are the only ones permitted to write checks out of the account. One of them had to have hired the murderer.”

“A lawyer.” She sighed with distaste. “Maybe we should set John on this angle of the case too. His mind should be contorted enough to follow the legal implications.”

“If he has a law degree, why the hell is he a cop?” Charlie didn't really care what the answer was to that, he simply wanted to keep her talking. He was tired of his own thoughts, and he didn't like the pensive expression on Penelope's face. He had this bewildering need to make her happy, and no clue whatsoever of how to do it.

Penelope shrugged. “You'll have to ask him. I think he had some kind of breakdown after Beth's accident. The driver of the car that ran into us was drunk and out of control, and he fled the scene. The police never caught him, and John simply couldn't live with that. Maybe he figured there were more crooks who never got caught.”

“Us?” The desultory conversation took a sharp right turn, and Charlie jerked his head up to watch her. “You were in the accident?”

“I was driving the car.”

Penelope spoke in a dead, flat voice that spoke of years of acceptance and guilt. Charlie's gut wrenched in pain. He wanted to hug her and offer what consolation he could, but she was far beyond that now, and, awkwardly, he realized his hug would inevitably turn to something else.

“But it wasn't your fault,” he reminded her.

“I was the one who wanted her to go with me. She'd been baking Christmas cookies and singing carols with the kids. I dragged her out of the house to see the marvelous gown I'd found in a designer shop. It was going to be her Christmas present if she liked it. I should have just bought the damned thing and wrapped it up.”

“And you've been blaming yourself for this for how long?” he asked quietly.

“Two years this past Christmas,” she said bitterly. “Can you imagine what their Christmas was like that year? The kids were three and four at the time. The entire family spent the holiday in the hospital, watching Beth breathe, for fear if they stopped watching, she'd die. John gave the kids their gifts in shopping bags, in the waiting room.”

Thoroughly helpless in the face of her grief, Charlie reached over and took her hand. “It wasn't your fault, Penny,” he whispered. “It was fate, or God, or the stars, or whatever you want to call it. Not you. It happens every day, to people everywhere. Maybe your lives were too perfect and needed shaking up. We can't sit around trying to undo the past. We can only go forward.”

She gulped and turned her face away, and he knew she was fighting sobs. He reached over and fished in her purse to produce the package of tissues she kept there. “It's okay. Cry if you want. Jesus, you have reason enough to cry. Just quit blaming yourself, all right? You didn't do it. The drunk did. And I think I can kind of understand why your brother-in-law went off the deep end and became a cop. I'd want to catch the bastard too.”

She nodded and rubbed at her eyes with the Kleenex. “That's what I told Beth, but she wouldn't believe me. She thinks he always wanted to be a cop and that she made him miserable by expecting him to be a lawyer.” Penelope gave a weepy laugh. “Beth blames herself for everything. She thinks it was her fault for running out on the kids to go play with me. And of course, it's her fault that John can't even bear to look at her anymore. I guess it runs in the family. And I don't know why I'm telling you any of this.”

With relief, Charlie settled back in his seat. She was returning to the Penelope he knew. “It's good to know the dynamics of the family I'll be barging into. What about your folks? Who do they blame?”

That had her twisting in her seat and staring suspiciously at him. “Barging into? Why should you have anything at all to do with my family?”

He couldn't resist that one. He'd take anger over tears any day, and he knew just how to get under Miss Penny's remarkably thin skin. Lifting his eyebrows, he let his gaze slide from her lovely breasts down to her all too slender waistline.

“Aside from the fact that you could right now be carrying my child ...” He waited for a burst of outrage, but she merely froze and glared. “My sister is supposed to be moving in with you. I suppose as a responsible brother, I should know what kind of family she's getting mixed up with.”

“Coming from someone who hasn't seen his sister or mother for ten years, I think it's just a trifle too late to assume responsibility now. I suspect Tamara is perfectly capable of reaching her own conclusions without your aid.”

“Are you ashamed to introduce me to your family?” He'd intended to needle her, but his own underlying concerns escaped in the question.

She sniffed and stuck her nose up in the air before returning to staring out the window. “They've met jocks before. It wouldn't kill them.”

Too bad murder was illegal. After all they'd been through, she'd reduced him to the role of packhorse again.

Of course, knowing Penelope, it was probably some kind of defense mechanism because he was getting too close. He wasn't much on psychology, but with Penelope he had amazing insight. He recognized the purpose of her barbed- wire barriers. She wasn't just shutting
him
out. She shut out anything wearing pants.

The question here was, how badly did he want to break through those barriers?

Slumping in his seat and glaring at the papers in his hands, Charlie hated himself for even considering the question. He liked things simple and uncomplicated.

It wasn't as if he were afraid of commitment. He'd always intended to marry someday, have 2.3 kids, build a house in the suburbs, and own an RV. He'd kind of pictured a wife with big blond hair and bounteous breasts, but that was because that was the kind of woman he usually took home with him from bars. He hadn't troubled to think further than that, since any such commitment was destined for the distant future.

But it was possible the future had arrived. He mentally cringed at the thought. If fate chose Penelope Albright to be the mother of his first child, fate had a warped sense of humor. He could no more imagine Penelope in a house in the suburbs than he could imagine her with 2.3 kids. Or an RV. Hell, he couldn't even imagine her watching a game on TV or riding in his GTO.

People didn't have to marry just because they produced offspring. He could see visiting his kid with miniature footballs, taking him to a game, arranging birthday parties at Chuck E. Cheese's. He could start a trust fund for the kid's college education. Penelope was a sensible sort. She'd understand that kind of arrangement a lot better than marriage to a redneck like him.

What he couldn't understand was this wayward trek his mind had taken on a child that was probably less than a minuscule possibility. Why the hell had he focused on that one tiny mistake and blown it into such proportions?

Disgruntled, Charlie closed his eyes and leaned back in the seat. If he didn't know better, he'd think he was looking for reasons to see Penelope after this was all over.

As if she'd heard some inkling of his thoughts, Penelope whispered almost to herself, “I'm going back to work, Charlie, and you can't stop me.”

Sleepily, Charlie wondered how PC&M treated pregnant partners.

***

As Charlie steered her past Miami's sprawling airport terminal and toward the parking lot, Penelope decided she could learn to enjoy the benefits of private plane travel. She hated the endless lines and crowded halls of that damned terminal. Charlie's method of operation was much less stressful. Now, if only he had a limousine waiting ...

No such luck, of course. They crossed the lines of traffic at the baggage pickup and hurried into the winter gloom of late afternoon.

“I could take a taxi home,” she offered hopefully, catching sight of one standing empty, its driver leaning against the hood in anticipation of an arriving passenger.

“Give it up, Penny. You're not going back to St. Lucia until we find out what's going on.”

He'd been rude and abrupt ever since they'd arrived. One would think
she
was the cause of all his problems. Penelope tried to jerk her arm out of his grasp, but he held her easily. “What are you planning to do? Lock me up somewhere?”

“I'm just taking you home. I'll work out the rest later.”

Well, she could handle that. She needed to see how Beth was doing. In the morning, she'd have to find some way of straightening out the mess with PC&M.

Charlie stopped at a mile-long midnight-blue car with side fins, gleaming chrome wire wheels, and white sidewall tires. Penelope stared at the behemoth with incredulity as he unlocked the trunk and threw in their baggage.

“
That's
your car?” She couldn't bite her tongue fast enough. The question just escaped without thought.

“Sixty-five GTO,” he grunted, slamming the trunk.

“It's an
antique
.” Her tongue had obviously taken control of her brain. She kept digging herself deeper. Admiringly, she slid her hand over the chrome trim. “Is it all original?”

“All GTO parts anyway.” He regarded her warily. “You rather I take you home in a taxi?”

She jerked her head up in surprise. “Why? What kind of engine does it have? It will get us there, won't it?”

He unlocked the door on her side and held it open for her. “Just like the song, it's got three deuces and a 389. We'll get there all right.”

“You listen to rock oldies?” she asked in disbelief as he slid in on the driver's side, then swore she'd bite her tongue off before using it again.

“Wasn't a whole lot else to listen to growing up in the boondocks. Couldn't buy my own collections, so I listened to my mother's. It wasn't all bad stuff.”

Penelope could see the tension in Charlie's shoulders as he started the car. He really, really didn't like rejection. She could puncture his ego until he sagged with holes right now. Oddly enough, after everything he'd done, she still couldn't summon the killer instinct necessary to puncture this man. The aging GTO had turned her into putty.

“Beth and I used to hold sock hops for the neighborhood,” she admitted. “We thought we'd been deprived by being born too late.”

He backed the car out without looking at her. “Yeah?” he asked disinterestedly.

Maybe she should let it go. He had kidnapped her twice, probably cost her her job, and he didn't deserve a moment of her time. But some kind of crazy bond had formed between them these last few days, and she had this weird need to hold on to it. “We won talent contests with our
Saturday Night Fever
dance routine. That's a little later than the sixties rock you had, but we listened avidly to the oldies stations to make up new routines. I recognize the GTO song. I've just never seen a GTO.”

The muscles of his broad shoulders relaxed a fraction. “It was my father's first car. He kept it in the garage after it died, and I tinkered with it in college until I got it running again. They just don't make 'em like this anymore.”

“There could be a reason for that,” she said wryly. “It must eat a gallon of gas every four feet.”

Charlie grinned. “You ought to see the gas tank. But I've got a VW bug that will eat road all day without a fill-up. I figure it balances out.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you're certifiable?” So much for holding her tongue.

He shrugged. “Can you tell the difference between any of those cars up there in front of us? They all look alike. What do you think ever became of the auto designers who dreamed up all the different models back then?”

“They became more practical?” she suggested.

“I don't see why practical has to be boring.” He eased the car into gear as they hit the highway.

“I'm afraid to ask what the hotel project you're building looks like.” Penelope gasped as they flew past a line of cars.

“Architect designs them. I just build them. But if I ever build my own house ...”

He cut off that thought and Penelope cast him a quizzical look, but she didn't inquire further. She didn't want to know what kind of house this man would build. That would be admitting too much personal interest.

Still, she couldn't help noticing how skillfully he handled the massive car, in and out of traffic, barely resting one hand over the wheel. He'd probably learned to drive from old movies.