Hot Rocks (18 page)

Really, the man hadn’t deserved to live if you thought about it.

In any case, he’d been a loose end that required snip-ping. The trail would have led to him eventually. He’d have bragged to someone, or would have thrown money around, squandering it on tasteless cars or women or God knew what that class of people considered desirable.

He’d blubbered and begged and sobbed like a baby when Crew held the gun to his head. Distasteful display, really, but what could one expect?

He’d also handed over the key to the mailbox locker where he’d stashed the Raggedy Andy doll with a bag of gems in its belly.

Genius, really, he had to give O’Hara credit for that little touch. Tucking millions of dollars’ worth of gems into innocuous objects, objects no one would look at twice. So when the alarms went off, the building locked down, the cops swarmed, no one would consider all those pretty stones were still inside, tucked into something as innocent as a child’s doll. Then it was just a matter of retrieving the extraordinary within the ordinary while the search went on elsewhere.

Yes, he could give Jack credit for that amusing detail, but that didn’t negate all the debits.

They could hardly be trusted to hold millions of dollars’ worth of gems for the year they’d agreed to. How could he possibly trust thieves to keep their word?

After all, he’d had no intention of keeping his.

Besides, he wanted it all. Had always intended to take it all. The others had merely been tools. When a tool had served its purpose, you discarded it. Better, you destroyed it.

But they’d deceived him, slipped through his fingers and taken half the prize with them. And cost him weeks of time and effort. He had to worry that they’d be caught pulling one of the pitiful scams Big Jack was so fond of, and end up confessing to the heist and losing half his property.

They should be dead now. The fact that one of them continued to live, to breathe, to walk, to hide, was a personal insult. He never tolerated insults.

His plan had been simple and clean. Myers first, execution style to make it seem as if one of his gambling debts had caught up with him. Then O’Hara and Young, bumbling idiots. They should have been where he’d
told
them to be, but they were too
stupid
to follow instructions.

If they had, he’d have contacted them as he’d planned, planted seeds of worry over Myers’s demise and arranged for a meeting in a quiet, secluded location not unlike the one he was dining in now.

There, he could have dealt with them both with little effort as neither had the stomach to so much as carry a weapon. He’d have left enough evidence to link them to the New York job, and set the scene to look, even to the most moronic cop, like a matter of thieves falling out.

But they’d vanished on him. Scuttled his careful planning by attempting to go underground. Over a month now, it had taken over a month to finally pick up the trail and track Willy back to New York, only to miss him by inches and be forced to spend more time, more effort, more money to chase him to Maryland.

Then lose him to a traffic accident.

Shaking his head, Crew cut another bite of bloody steak. He’d never be able to collect directly from Willy now, so that account would be transferred to Big Jack—and the rest.

How to do it was the question, and the possibilities entertained him through the rest of his meal.

Did he go after the girl directly at this point, sweat her father’s location and the whereabouts of the gems out of her? But if Willy had died before giving her any salient information, that would be a wasted effort.

Then there was this Maxfield Gannon to factor in. It might be wise to do a bit of research there, find out just what sort of man he was. One amenable to a bribe, perhaps? Obviously, he knew something about the girl or he wouldn’t have been sneaking into her shop.

Or, and the thought struck him like an arrow in the heart, she had already cut a deal with Gannon. And that would be too bad, he thought, slapping his fist on the table again and again. That would be too bad for all involved.

He wasn’t going to settle for half. It was not acceptable. Therefore, he would find a way to get back the rest of his property.

The girl was the key. What she knew or didn’t know was undetermined. But there was one simple fact: She was Jack’s daughter, and the apple of his larcenous eye.

She was bait.

Considering this, he leaned back, tidily dabbed his mouth with his napkin. Really, the food was better here than one might think, and the quiet was soothing.

Quiet. Private. A nice little woodland getaway. He began to smile as he indulged himself in another glass of wine. Quiet and private, with no neighbors nearby to disturb if one was to have a discussion with . . . associates. A discussion that might become a bit heated.

He looked around the cabin, at the country dark pressing against the windows.

It might do very well, he thought. It might do very well indeed.

 

 

 

It was very odd waking up with a man in your bed.
A man took up considerable room, for one thing, and she wasn’t used to worrying about how she looked the minute she opened her eyes in the morning.

She supposed she’d get over the last part, if she continued to wake up with this man in her bed for any length of time. And she could always get a bigger bed to compensate for the first part.

The question was, how did she feel about sharing her bed—and wasn’t that just a metaphor for her life?—with this man for any length of time? She hadn’t had time to think it through; hadn’t taken time, she corrected.

Closing her eyes, she tried to imagine it was a month later. Her garden would be exploding, and she’d be thinking about summer clothes, about getting her outdoor furniture from the shed. Henry would be due for his annual vet appointment.

She’d be planning Jenny’s baby shower.

Laine opened one eye, squinted at Max.

He was still there. His face was squashed into the pillow, his hair all cute and tousled.

So, she felt pretty good about having him there a month from now.

Try six months. She closed her eyes again and projected.

Coming up on Thanksgiving. In her usual organized fashion—she didn’t care
what
Jenny said, it wasn’t obsessive or disgusting—she’d have her Christmas shopping finished. She’d be planning holiday parties, and how she’d decorate the shop and the house.

She’d order a cord of wood and enjoy lighting a fire every evening. She’d stock a few bottles of good champagne so she and Max could . . .

Uh-oh, there he was.

She opened both eyes now and studied him. Yeah, there he was. Popping right up in her little projections, lying right there beside her sleeping while Henry, her pre-alarm clock, was beginning to stir.

She had a feeling if she added six months to that projection and made it a year, he was still going to be there.

He opened his eyes, a quick flash of that tawny brown, and had her yelping in surprise.

“I could hear you staring.”

“I wasn’t. I was thinking.”

“I could hear that, too.”

His arm shot out, hooked around her. She had a foolish little thrill tremble in her belly at the easy strength of him when he pulled her over and under him.

“I need to let Henry out.”

“He can wait a minute.” His mouth took hers so that thrill twisted into a throb.

“We’re creatures of habit.” Her breath caught. “Henry and me.”

“Creatures of habit should always be in the market to develop another habit.” He nuzzled her neck where her pulse pounded. “You’re all warm and soft in the morning.”

“Getting warmer and softer by the minute.”

His lips curved against her skin, then he lifted his head to look into her eyes. “Let’s see about that.”

He scooped his hands under her hips, lifted them. And slid inside her. Those bright blue eyes blurred.

“Oh yeah.” He watched her, watched her in the pale morning sunlight as he stroked. “You’re absolutely right.”

 

 

 

Henry whined and plopped his front paws on the side
of the bed. He cocked his head as if trying to figure out why the two humans were still in there with their eyes closed when it was past time to let him out.

He barked once. A definite question mark.

“Okay, Henry, just a minute.”

Max trailed his fingertips over Laine’s arm. “Want me to do it?”

“You already did it. And thanks.”

“Ha ha. Do you want me to let the dog out?”

“No, we have our little routine.”

She got out of bed, which had Henry racing to the bedroom doorway, racing back, dancing in place while she got her robe out of the closet.

“Does the routine include coffee?” Max asked her.

“There is no routine without coffee.”

“Praise God. I’m going to grab a shower, then I’ll be down.”

“Take your time. Are you sure you want to go out, Henry? Are you absolutely, positively sure?”

From the tone, and the dog’s manic reaction, Max imagined the byplay was part of the morning ritual. He liked hearing the dog gallop up and down the steps, while Laine’s laugh rolled.

He grinned all the way into the shower.

Downstairs, with Henry bouncing on all four legs, Laine unlocked the mudroom door. Per routine, she unlocked the outside door so Henry could fly through rather than wiggle through his doggie door, and so she could take a deep breath of morning air.

She admired her spring bulbs, bent down to sniff the hyacinths she’d planted in purples and pinks. Arms crossed, she stood and watched Henry make his morning circuit, lifting his leg on every tree in the near backyard. Eventually, he’d take a run into the woods, she knew, to see if he could scare up a few squirrels, flush some deer. But that little adventure would wait until he’d scrupulously marked his perimeter.

She listened to the birds chirp, and the bubble of her busy little stream. She was still warm from Max, still warm for him, and wondered how anyone could have a single worry on such a perfect and peaceful morning.

She stepped back in, closed the outside door. And was starting to hum when she walked back into the kitchen.

He stepped from behind the door and shot her heart into her throat. She was opening her mouth to scream when he laid a warning finger to his lips and had the sound sliding away.

It knocked the breath out of her so she stumbled back
a step, hit the wall while her hand groped at her throat as if to decide whether to push the scream out or block it.

While he stood grinning at her, his finger still tapping on his lips, she sucked in a wheeze of breath and let it out with a single explosive whisper.

“Dad!”

“Surprise, Lainie.” He whipped his hand from behind his back and held out a drooping clutch of spring violets. “How’s my sweet baby girl?”

“Poleaxed” was a word Max had used. She now understood it perfectly. “What are you
doing
here? How did you—” She stopped herself before asking him how he’d gotten in. Ridiculous question seeing as lifting locks was one of his favorite pastimes. “Oh, Dad, what have you done?”

“Now, is that any way to greet your dear old dad after all this time?” He opened his arms wide. “Don’t I get a hug?”

There was a twinkle in his eyes, eyes as blue as her own. His hair—his pride and joy—was stoplight red and combed into a luxurious mane around his wide, cheerful face. Freckles sprinkled over his nose and cheeks like ginger shaken on cream.

He wore a buffalo check flannel shirt in black and red, and jeans, both of which she imagined he’d selected as a nod to the area, and both of which appeared to have been slept in. The boots he’d paired with them looked painfully new.

He cocked his head and gave her a dreamy, puppy-dog smile.

Her heart had no defense against it. She leaped into his arms, locking herself around him as he squeezed tight and spun into a few giddy circles.

“That’s my girl. That’s my baby. My Princess Lainie of Haraland.”

With her feet still a foot off the floor, she rested her head on his shoulder. “I’m not six anymore, Dad. Or eight, or ten.”

“Still my girl, aren’t you?”

He smelled like cinnamon sticks and had the build of a Yukon grizzly. “Yes, I guess I still am.” She eased back, giving his shoulders a little nudge so he’d set her down. “How did you get here?”

“Trains, planes and automobiles. With the last of it on my own two feet. It’s a place you’ve got here, sweetie pie. Scenic. But did you notice, it’s in the woods?”

It made her smile. “No kidding? Good thing I like the woods.”

“Must get that from your mother. How is she?”

“She’s great.” Laine didn’t know why it always made her feel guilty when he asked, without rancor, with sincere interest. “How long have you been here?”

“Just got in last night. Since I arrived at your woodland paradise late, figured you to be in dreamland, I let myself in. Bunked on your couch, which I should tell you is in sorry shape.” He pressed a hand to his lower back. “Be a lamb, sweetie, and make your daddy some coffee.”

“I was just about . . .” She trailed off as the reminder of coffee cleared her head.
Max!
“I’m not alone.” Panic trickled her throat. “There’s someone upstairs in the shower.”

“I gathered that from the car in your drive, the fancy piece with New York plates.” He chucked her under the chin. “You’re going to tell me, I hope, that you had a slumber party with an out-of-town girlfriend.”

“I’m twenty-eight. I graduated from slumber parties with girlfriends to having sex with men.”

“Please.” Jack pressed a hand to his heart. “Let’s just say you had a friend spend the night. This is the sort of thing a father needs to take in stages. Coffee, darling? That’s a good girl.”