“Do you really think so?”
Mac hated liars, but he managed to put some assurance into his voice to help her through the night. “Absolutely.”
She studied him until he wanted to squirm. “I think you’re just saying that to make me feel better.” That empty, dazed look had crept into her eyes again. “What are the odds? On the level.”
“Mallory—”
“I want to know the truth. The odds of getting her back alive aren’t good, are they?” After watching him a moment, she set her glass down with a thunk. “That’s what I thought.”
An uncomfortable silence rose between them. Mac saw a glint creep into her eyes. Rage. He couldn’t blame her. But, even so, he felt uncomfortable, as though he might take the brunt of her anger if he said the wrong thing.
After an endless moment, she cried, “I can’t accept that. Pete Lucetti may be slick, but he can’t be that slick. I’m going to find him, just you watch. He’s going to be sorry he ever did this.”
A tremor ran the length of her. Mac tried to imagine how frustrated she must be feeling and realized no one could truly understand without having first lived through it. She looked completely drained.
“Maybe what you need is a long, hot shower,” he suggested softly. “I know it’ll be hard to lie down, but you have to think of Emily.” Mac felt like a heel for using Em’s welfare as a bargaining chip, but it was the only way he could think of to convince Mallory she needed sleep. He would have been willing to bet she hadn’t so much as napped since Keith’s collapse. And he doubted she had eaten much, either. “If you aren’t rested tomorrow, you won’t be able to think clearly. And you’re going to need your wits about you. Why don’t you go on upstairs. I’ll clean up here.”
Though clearly reluctant, she nodded and stood. He watched her as she left the kitchen. How many times had he wished that Mallory Christiani and all women like her would get their comeuppance? Well, he was getting his wish. Daddy’s money couldn’t buy her way out of this one. Mac crushed the napkin in his hand.
* * *
GEORGE PAISLEY COCKED his gray head to one side and stared at the crumpled napkin in his plate, considering what his friend Paul Fields had just said. In a low whisper, he replied, “The problem is, I don’t like wasting broads. Call it what you like, but it doesn’t sit right. It’s one thing when you get a direct order to rub out some whore no one cares about. It’s another to decide to do it on your own, especially when the victim is a—”
“Lady?” Paul supplied in a snarl. A compulsive stirrer, especially when he was nervous, he clanked his spoon in his cup, driving the other two men at the table and everyone else in the restaurant half crazy with the noise. As always, he ended the stirring with two loud thunks on the edge of his cup. “Will it sit better if it’s you who gets it? If the boss sees what’s in those ledgers, we’re all three goners. Do you think I’ve come this far to get caught because you’re feeling chivalrous? I say knock her off. Better her than us. It’s the only way I can see to stop her. Look at the facts, man. The boss has her brat. She’ll do anything to get that kid back. Nothing will stop her, not as long as she’s alive.”
Dennis Godbey sighed and propped an elbow on the table, his blue eyes sliding from one of his friends to the other. “My vote is to take her out tomorrow. I’ll do it if George can’t.”
“It’s not that I can’t handle it!” George snarled. “I just think there ought to be another way, that’s all.”
Paul laughed softly. “Right. Why don’t we simply call her and tell her our problem? I can hear it all now. ‘You see, Mrs. Christiani, we were in cahoots with Miles, cheating our boss. Those ledgers you have will finger us. If that happens, we all die. The way we see it, it’s your daughter’s life or ours.’ Come on, George. Do you think she’s going to care? He’s got her daughter. We have to take her out. When the old man leaves Intensive Care, we’ll get rid of him, too. End of problem until after everything goes through probate. When the box is finally opened, we’ll find out who gets the contents and arrange to steal the ledgers before anyone reads them. It’s simple, clean, and we come out smelling like roses.”
“Just like the boss would do it?” George said softly. “No loose ends. Don’t you ever get sick of it? That’s why we got ourselves into this mess in the first place.”
Paul began stirring his coffee again, his hazel eyes intent on the swirling liquid. “Oh, I’m sick of it. We’re all sick of it. But I’m not so fed up that I’m willing to go swimming in the sound with bricks tied to my ankles.”
“I vote we do it from a distance,” Dennis inserted.
“I’m game,” Paul replied. “And you won’t hear any more arguments from George, either.” He gave his spoon a final clank, skewering Paisley with a meaningful glare. “Right, Georgie Boy?”
* * *
AFTER MALLORY WENT UPSTAIRS, Mac placed two phone calls, one to the King County Police and one to Beth Hamstead. He hated lying, but he had to be sure well-meaning cops or friends didn’t unwittingly do something to panic Lucetti. Emily was home, safe and sound, Mac told them. They had found her wandering one of the back roads. No more searching necessary. He apologized profusely for all the trouble that had been caused. Kids would be kids. Seven-year-old girls didn’t always stay in the yard as they were told. There was another call Mac wanted to make, to his best friend, Shelby. He needed to find out who those three men in the cream-colored car were. Fast. Shelby could do the legwork for him. What if Lucetti had tapped the phone lines, though? A call like that could be disastrous. He’d have to phone Shelby from a booth in the morning.
Once Mac felt certain he didn’t have to worry about the Hamsteads or the police complicating matters, he did the dishes, one ear cocked toward the stairs to listen for Mallory. When twenty minutes passed and he hadn’t heard water running through the pipes, he began to worry. Was she all right? He hated to go up. If he caught her half-dressed, they’d both be embarrassed, but if he didn’t go up and she was sick or something...
He dried his hands and tossed the towel on the countertop. Indecision held him rooted for a moment, then he moved through the entry hall until he stood at the bottom of the stairs. The house was eerily silent now that he had stopped rummaging around. No, not completely silent. He turned his head slightly and listened. There it was again. She was up there someplace bawling. And trying very hard not to be heard.
Mac put a hand on the banister, took a step up, hesitated. If he were smart, he’d stay down here and let her cry. He took another step. He was lousy at mopping up tears. He took another step. Then another. He might be clumsy, but nobody else was around to take care of her.
The house was like a maze. Two long halls when most places had one. Doors everywhere. He homed in on the soft sounds. At last he found the right room. The door was closed. From the other side, he could hear the sobbing clearly, not quite so soft now that he was so close. He stood there and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Then he raked his hand through his hair. Here goes nothing.
He opened the door and peeked inside. The shaft of light from the hall spilled across Mallory, who knelt by a canopy bed. Pink ruffles and lace. A little girl’s room. She held something clutched in her arms. Mac couldn’t see what. She was rocking it like she would a child. His guts twisted. He had seen a lot of heartache, experienced his share, but never had he seen anything like this. The raw, jagged sounds coming from her chest sounded as if they might tear something important loose.
He didn’t feel himself move toward her. Suddenly he was just there. Going down on one knee behind her, he placed a hand on her back. She jerked away, surprised, then averted her face and shrank from him. Now that he was closer, he could see that she had a tattered stuffed dog in her arms.
“Mallory...”
“It’s Ragsdale,” she sobbed.
“It’s what?”
“Ragsdale. She c-can’t sleep w-without him.”
“Oh, Mallory. Come here.”
&nb
sp; Mac thought she might resist. Instead he got an armful of woman and stuffed dog. He caught her to his chest and buried his face in her hair, shocked because some of the tears flowing were his own. He had never felt anyone shake the way she was shaking. He could almost feel her pain.
“My baby. They’re going to kill my baby.” She clung to him as if she were about to plunge off a cliff. “I love her so much. She’s afraid, I know she is. How can he do this? Oh, Mac, I can’t bear it. Not my little girl. They can have everything—all of it. But not my baby... Sh-she never did anything to anyone.”
“I know.”
He wrapped his arms around her. Now it was him doing the rocking. There was a first time for everything. Mac dipped his head to wipe his cheek dry on her blouse. She smelled like the lilac bushes that bloomed in his mom’s backyard each spring. He closed his eyes. “You listen to me, okay? I’m going to do everything I can to bring Emily home. You hear me? Safe and sound. Back to you. Back to Ragsdale. I promise you that.”
“But you said Lucetti can’t be found.”
“No, I said he would be hard to find. There’s a difference. I’m good at what I do, Mallory. Give me a chance to prove it. If he can be found, I’ll find him.” Catching her face between his hands, Mac set her away from him so he could look into her eyes. “I’ll do everything I possibly can to bring Em home. Trust me, okay? Just trust me.”
He felt some of the tension drain out of her. She hiccuped and sniffed. “D-do you r-really think you can?”
“Of course I do. You and I are going to find that key and get the package. We can find it. After that, getting Emily back will be simple.”
He drew her back into his arms and after a long while, she quieted. When she did, he rose to his feet and pulled her up with him. She swayed sideways and he caught her, tucking in his chin to look at the tattered toy between them. A little-girl smell drifted up from the lop-eared dog, shampoo and powder and fresh-washed flannel. He could picture Emily fast asleep with the toy nestled in the crook of her arm. Moving toward the bed, he whipped back the covers and lowered Mallory to the mattress. For an instant, she looked startled to find herself lying down, then she peered up at him through the gloom, her eyelashes fluttering. Mac knew exhaustion was about to take its toll. As he straightened, he hit his head on the canopy frame. He bit back a word that should never be uttered in a little girl’s bedroom and shot a glare at the ruffled contraption above him. The child obviously had no father, or he’d have gotten rid of the darned thing.
With the back of her hand, Mallory made a halfhearted swipe at her nose and sniffed. There weren’t any tissues on the nightstand. He felt for his handkerchief and couldn’t find it. Sighing, he drew the covers over her and sat down. She sniffed again and made another swipe. He wasn’t sure where a bathroom was, and he was afraid to leave her just yet. Tugging up one corner of the sheet, he mopped at her face. She was beyond caring, and so was he.
“Blow.”
She made a snuffling noise into the sheet and he gave the tip of her small nose a careful squeeze.
Mac sighed and smoothed her hair back from her cheek. The strands were every bit as soft and silken as he had always imagined.
Her eyelashes drifted downward, wet and spiked. He watched as her lips parted slightly and her breathing changed. Her hand relaxed its hold on Ragsdale and slid partway down the dog’s back. Mac touched her hair again. Rubbing it between his fingers, he smiled to himself. Definitely salon-conditioned, he decided. Hair didn’t come that soft naturally.
His gaze dropped to the unused half of her pillow. Weariness and the soft sound of her breathing made him yawn. There was room enough for two. If he slept beside her, he wouldn’t have to worry about her getting up in the middle of the night. The house was locked up. He stripped off his shoulder holster and laid it beside the bed. Just for a few minutes, he thought, as he stretched out next to her. An hour, tops...
Chapter Six
Just before dawn, Mallory awoke alone in Emily’s bed. In the farthest reaches of her mind, she remembered the feel of Mac’s body stretched out beside her during the night, the heavy warmth of his arm slung across her waist, his other hand cupped beneath her head. She lifted her lashes slowly, aware of the relentless ache in her chest before she fully opened her eyes. She had escaped the pain for a few hours, but now she had to face it.
She didn’t want to. Part of her longed to stay unconscious until Em was home. Ah, but that was the catch, wasn’t it? There was no guarantee that Em would ever return. Mac’s reassurances had worked their magic last night, giving her hope, but now that her head was clear, she had to accept facts. The odds weren’t good.
Determination filled Mallory. It was up to her to tip the scales in Em’s favor. And she would. Somehow... No price was too dear, not even her own life, if it came to that.
The room was cast in shadow. As she rolled over in bed, the covers slipped down her arm and exposed her to the predawn chill. She had forgotten to turn up the thermostat. Passing a hand over her eyes, she blinked to clear her vision. As her surroundings came into focus, she spied Mac’s silhouette at the window, his shoulders delineated against the charcoal gloom of the sky. She lay there and studied him, making no sound.
It made no sense, but seeing him there was a comfort. At a time like this, Mac should seem a poor substitute for Darren or Keith, but strangely enough, she no longer felt so alone. Mac had been there for her in all the ways that counted last night. Many men would have been incapable of that kind of tenderness, especially with someone they scarcely knew.
As if he sensed her watching him, he glanced over his shoulder at her. Even in the dim light, she could see the clear gray of his eyes, feel their impact. Eyes like his touched. She knew it had to be her imagination, but that was how she felt—touched. Yesterday at the hospital, that had unnerved her. Now she wasn’t certain how it made her feel.
“What time is it?” she asked.
“Five. We have another three hours to get through.”
Three hours...one hundred and eighty minutes...forever. She swung her legs over the edge of the bed and planted her feet on the floor. Glancing down at herself, she saw that her blouse had come partially undone and that her skirt had twisted until the side seam was in front. She stood and quickly straightened her clothing, aware that Mac’s eyes never left her, that he was watching her fumble with the buttons. She wondered what he was thinking, but when she looked up at him, she could read nothing in his expression. All she knew was that the closeness they had shared last night had evaporated. That left her feeling strangely desolate.
Mac leaned against the window frame, aware of the woman behind him with every pore of his skin. What would she say, he wondered, if he turned to her right now and told her he was Randy Watts’s half brother. Because of the different last name, she probably didn’t know, not unless Keith had mentioned it. And even if Keith had at some point, Mallory probably didn’t remember. Fourteen years was a long time.
But Mac remembered...
Judging by his behavior last night, perhaps he hadn’t remembered quite vividly enough. If he closed his eyes, he could see that cheap headstone of Randy’s as clearly as though he were there, feel the rain pelting his face, hear the wind whistling. A very lonely place, that graveyard, Randy’s eternal reward for having dared to believe in the great American dream...that the sky was the limit, even for poor boys. When Randy was at last forced to accept that he wasn’t quite good enough in some people’s eyes, the disillusionment had killed him. Mac wouldn’t make the same mistake. Women like Mallory were lethal.
“Mac?” Mallory could see the rigid set of his shoulders, the knotted muscle along his jaw. He looked angry and remote. She didn’t mean to sound pitiful when she said his name, but her emotions betrayed her, making her voice tremble. “I—are you—is something wrong?”
“No.”
The word hung there between them. No. Sometimes, no meant yes, and she sensed that this was one of those times. Her fi
rst thought was that something had happened while she was asleep, that Mac was trying to work up the courage to tell her. Emily. She clasped her hands and pressed them against her stomach. Words slid up her throat and caught right behind her larynx, words she couldn’t utter. Emily. Mallory felt as if she might be sick. Cold sweat trickled from her armpits down the sides of her breasts.
“It’s Em, isn’t it? Something’s happened.”
Mac shot her a puzzled look. “No. Why?” Mallory stared at him. Running a hand through his hair, he moved away from the window. “I was just thinking, that’s all. This time of morning does that to me, makes me gloomy. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“You—there’s nothing—they didn’t—she’s not—” She could hear herself babbling, but couldn’t stop, couldn’t sort the words once they began to erupt.
Mac laid a hand over her mouth. “She’s all right, Mallory,” he whispered. “I’m sorry if I frightened you.”
She had an unbalanced feeling, very like when waves washed the sand out from under her on the beach. She was losing her grip, and this was how it felt to go insane. She could feel her body twitching. Taking a deep breath, Mallory quit breathing and clamped her mouth shut. Little black spots bounced in front of her eyes. She wondered if she might faint.
Mac slid a hand behind her neck to pull her face against his shoulder. He kneaded the spasm-stricken muscles in her shoulders. “You’re all right, Mallory,” he murmured. “It happens sometimes. Happened to me once, in fact, after a grenade hit near our foxhole. The old muscles go crazy. Stop trying to control it and just let go.”
After a minute, her body began to respond to the gentle massage of his hands. The twitching slowly subsided. She stood there with her face buried against his shirt and wished she didn’t have to lift her head. She had never in all her life acted like such a complete idiot. What was happening to her? What must Mac think? She had to get a hold on herself. She’d be of no use to Emily or anyone else if this continued.