Out of Control (9 page)

Except now A.J. was cooling his heels in jail, unable to put together a bid package.
The task had fallen to Dylan, and I guessed the copies I held in my hand were what
he needed to do it. But why was there also information about my family? To the best
of my knowledge, no one needed to know anything about the owner’s family in order
to bid on production leases.

And why had the bearded man come to the office in the middle of the night, in the
dark, to leave the dossier on Dylan’s desk? Because I was absolutely positive it hadn’t
been there when I searched the office earlier.

Who
was
that bearded guy?

I thumbed through the pages again, lingering over the photos of my parents. They looked
so much older. I felt a pang of nostalgia, remembering a thousand things about them,
forgetting a thousand more. Once again, I looked at the picture of my namesake niece
and wondered what she was like. Did she fall in line with my sisters and meet the
lofty level of Southern grace and charm my parents demanded? Or was she a rebel who
called calf rope on reining in her natural curiosity? Was she good at math? Did Wynne
insist she concentrate on other things, more in keeping with gentility than numbers?

I supposed I’d never know.

I debated whether to take the dossier. Would Dylan expect it to be there in the morning?
What did it mean? Could he prepare the bid package without it? Not that it really
mattered, because I fully intended to call Tom Plank and tell him I was onto his scam,
that if Arroyo Petroleum won the bid, I’d tell my father what he was up to.

In the end, sentimentality got the best of me, along with fear for my family’s safety.
I could see no good reason for their photos and information to be included in the
dossier, which meant they were there for a bad reason.

I folded the papers in half and stuffed them in the zipper pocket of my tool bag.

Ten minutes later, I was in the car and on my way to the north Dallas Intercontinental
Hotel, where Lacrouix and Book employees always stay when we’re in Dallas for meetings
or to see customers. I’d just gotten on the toll road when something occurred to me.
Suppose Dylan had something at his house that would implicate him? Something real
and unquestionable? I slowed down and debated whether I should go and see. Would he
be home already? If so, no way I’d risk going in. But if not, maybe I should.

I exited the toll road and pulled into a deserted parking lot to Google his address.
Dylan lived in Highland Park, which is in the center of Dallas. It’s where the wealthy
buy a nice home for half a million dollars, only to tear it down and rebuild a new
multi-million dollar home. It’s all about location.

By the time I got to Highland Park, it was past eleven o’clock and I wasn’t sure if
he was home, or not. The house was dark, except for some landscape lights in the trees
and shrubs. Was it still empty, or had he simply gone to bed? Not wanting my cell
number to show up on his caller ID, I drove back to Mockingbird, where I stopped at
a gas station and called his house from the last working pay phone within five miles.
When no one answered, I decided to go for it.

I parked on the nearest cross street, as far away from the street light as possible,
and stealthily made my way down the alley located behind the houses. I regretted that
decision when several dogs went haywire and barked their fool heads off at me. I half
expected a police cruiser to come screaming around the corner any second.

But I wound up at Dylan’s gate without further incident, and feeling confident, let
myself into his backyard. From the dim light of the landscape fixtures, I saw a wealth
of windows, along with a sign proclaiming the house was electronically secured by
a local security company. I was cursing the sign and wondering how complicated it
would be to disable the alarm when I noticed an upstairs window was slightly open.
It was my lucky night. Maybe I’d hop a plane to Vegas later.

Climbing to the window proved to be interesting, but once I got past the rose bushes
it was no big deal. Within only a few minutes I was inside Dylan’s house. I stood
just next to the window and listened carefully, to make certain no one was there,
or at least that they hadn’t heard me. The house was silent as a tomb. And hot enough
to bake a pizza. I supposed he’d turned off the air conditioning before he left for
west Texas.

I tiptoed toward the door of the small bedroom I’d landed in, and peeked out into
the hallway. It was illuminated very dimly by the outside lights shining through the
front windows of the large foyer at the bottom of the stairs. I made my way along
the hall and peeked into the other two rooms, one of which turned out to be another
guest room and the other a workout room. Remembering his flabby belly, I decided Dylan
didn’t come upstairs very often.

Creeping downstairs, I headed for the back of the house, looking for a study, or a
den. Maybe he had a desk in his bedroom? The idea of going into Dylan Sharpe’s bedroom
made me a wee bit nauseous.

Passing through a large, formal dining room, I found the kitchen. There was a swinging
door on the opposite side. Surely it led to a den or study. I pushed through, pointing
my little flashlight into the room, which was, indeed, a den. With a large desk and
lots of paper—and a computer. Who knew what goodies I might find on that computer?
Excited at the prospect, I headed that way, but barely made it three feet before someone
shoved me so hard I went down like a load of bricks, knocking the wind out of me and
sending my little flashlight flying.

Chapter Six

A heavy body came down on top of me, painfully smashing my breasts and belly against
the hardwood floor, pressing the air from my lungs until I saw sparklers. “What are
you doing here?” a deep voice asked against my ear.

It wasn’t Dylan, and I was torn between relief and stark terror. At least Dylan was
a known threat—an out-of-shape drunkard I could manage with my limited self defense
moves. The man lying on my back was a wild card. For all I knew, he was a burglar
who’d kill me.

Or rape me. I couldn’t be certain, but I suspected the guy had a hard-on.

Or maybe it was a gun.

Oh, shit.

I didn’t respond, mostly because I couldn’t breathe. I was about to pass out.

“Answer me.”

Reality faded and I fought for breath, wheezing.

He eased up a fraction, but only to grab my right wrist and hold it in a vice grip.
He twisted until I was certain it would snap. “Tell me why you’re here,” he demanded.

“I came to surprise Dylan,” I managed to say around the pain shooting up my arm.

“Who are you?”

Remembering the name of Ms. Extreme Boobs, who graced the June issue of
Penthouse
, I said in a breathy voice, “Summer Wilde.”

He was quiet for a moment, then said in a very different voice, “You’re a whore.”

“Um…” Oh God, my parents would die of shame. “This is…this is a little game he likes
to play. I hide and he comes to find me.” Amazing what great bullshit I could come
up with under duress.

Without losing his grip on my wrist, he moved his other hand between us and I heard
the distinct sound of a zipper. “Then it won’t matter to you if it’s him or me, will
it?”

Was it a threat to get me to fess up? If so, it worked. “Yes!” I managed to get out,
“I’m not a prostitute. I’m…I’m his girlfriend.”

“I know his girlfriend, and you’re not her.”

“How? It’s dark.”

“Your ass isn’t big enough.” He shoved his hand down my pants and fondled the anatomy
in question. “But it’s very nice.” He adjusted himself until the length of his erection
rode between my cheeks.

“Please, let me up. I’ll tell you who I am.”

“Oh, you’ll tell me who you are. But first…” He began to move against my back, his
breath hissing through his lips.

I squeezed my eyes shut and prayed for strength. If I couldn’t get away from him,
he was going to rape me. It’s every woman’s worst fear, one we think about, and wonder
how we’d react under threat of it. I generally thought I’d be so pissed off I’d be
able to get loose from a rapist through sheer force of will.

The reality was, I was unable to move, his weight against my back was so great. I
was still struggling to breathe, and if he exerted any more pressure against my throbbing
wrist, it would break.

More than I was pissed off, I was scared. I felt helpless and small, and completely
at his mercy. It was horrible.

He lifted his hips long enough to jerk my black workout pants down and I tried to
roll over, but he instantly pressed against me, forcing me back to the floor. I felt
his penis against my bottom and I knew it really was going to happen. I was going
to be violated by a faceless stranger, and nothing would ever be the same again.

Out of nowhere, I thought of Robichaud. Would he still want me after this? Would I
want him? Would I want any man? Or was this going to screw up my sex life for all
eternity? I suspected it might, and that’s what took me from shaking fear to raging
fury. This asshole wasn’t going to make me a case for therapy.

Mr. P.’s lessons came screaming back to me.
Ignore pain and focus on escape. Do whatever you must to escape.

Jerking my wrist, I felt with agonizing clarity the pain Mr. P spoke of. But I continued
dragging his hand toward my mouth and bit him. Hard.

He howled and let go of my wrist, only to grab a handful of my hair and jerk it violently.
“Bitch!”

“Fuckwad! Get off me!”

The penis kept coming, painfully prodding against me, looking for something I was
determined not to give it.

From somewhere in the darkness of the room, I heard the distinct sound of a shotgun
shell sliding home. Then I heard a feminine voice. “Get off her before I blow a hole
in you.”

My rapist stilled. “Who are you?”

“I’m your worst fucking nightmare. Now get off her or lose your whole goddamned head.
Both of them.”

Conaway
.

Sweet Jesus, I’d never been so glad to see anyone in my whole life. Never mind that
I couldn’t actually see her. She was there, for whatever reason, and holding a loaded
shotgun. I wasn’t going to be raped. Or murdered.

The stranger moved away from me and I heard his zipper. “Who
are
you?”

“I think I should be the one asking questions, seeing as how I’m the one with the
cannon. Besides a loser rapist son of a bitch, who are
you
?”

I came to my knees and pulled my pants up, then crawled toward the sound of Conaway’s
voice, favoring my wrist. I bumped into a chair and huddled against its legs, holding
my arm against my chest. Peering through the gloom, I could barely make out the shadow
of the man, cast by the tiny light of my dropped flashlight shining against the far
wall. He had a beard. It had to be the same guy who’d been in Dylan’s office.

In a vaguely familiar voice, he said condescendingly, “I’m a friend of Dylan’s, with
every right to be here. I’m going to call the police.” He turned with a squeak of
rubber-soled shoes against the wood floor.

The room exploded with a deafening boom and the sharp blaze of gunpowder, followed
by the sound of Sheetrock crumbling to the floor. She’d blown a hole in the damn wall.
“You’re not calling anybody, except maybe God, and he won’t hear you because you’re
going straight to Hell.”

“You wouldn’t shoot me.”

She pumped the shotgun again, sliding another shell into the chamber. “Yeah, I wouldn’t
shoot you about as much as you weren’t going to rape her. You’ve got no qualms about
poking your dick where it’s not wanted, and I’ve got no qualms about blowing your
fucking ass into next week.”

I guess he believed her. I sure did. He stood still.

“We’re going to the wine cellar. Start walking, very slowly. I’ve been playing with
guns since I was eight years old. I’ll shoot you in a heartbeat, and I won’t miss.”

“Shoot a man in the back and it’s murder.”

There was a childish,
nyah-nyah
tone in his voice. He sounded just like Robby Williams, a nerd of a guy in sixth
grade who’d always spouted off pointless, know-it-all remarks and got the snot beat
out of him. The kid never did learn to keep his mouth shut.

“
Why
are you arguing with me? Because I’m a woman? Is that it? You think I’d hesitate
to kill you because I’m a woman?” She laughed, a bit diabolically. “When you get to
Hell, look for a Ugandan man named Mousha. He didn’t think I’d pull the trigger, either.
Now,
walk
.”

The stranger started walking.

I struggled to my feet and followed Conaway through the kitchen to the laundry room.
The shutters were open, letting in enough light from the backyard landscape fixtures
to see there was a door on the wall opposite the washer and dryer.

“Open it,” she said to me.

Moving as far away as possible from the ass-wipe, I skirted him and went to the door,
opening it without turning my back on him, blindly reaching for the wall switch beside
the door. The stairwell light came on and I got the first good look at my almost rapist.

I gasped in shock. “You gotta be freakin’
kidding
me.”

Squinting in the sudden light after gloomy darkness, Tim Fresh looked just as shocked
to see me. His beard was fake and I wondered why he bothered. Why was he slithering
around Dylan’s office and his house? Why had he left the dossier on his desk?

“I should kill you!” Conaway exclaimed, shoving the shotgun into his back. “
What
are you doing here?”

True to form, he swelled up arrogantly. “None of your damn business, just like you
have no damn business being here.”

Conaway shot me a look before she raised the gun and pressed it against Tim’s head.
“I’ll count to three, and if you don’t tell me what you’re doing here, I’ll kill you.”

“I’m with Homeland Security. If you murder me, they’ll lock you up and throw away
the key.”

“This is America, Mr. Fresh, not some third world country where government hacks are
demigods. You were trying to rape my friend, you’re in someone’s home without a warrant,
in disguise, and I deeply suspect your superiors might give me a fucking medal for
getting rid of you.”

His shoulders sagged. He met my gaze and the fire was gone. “I’m convinced Dylan Sharpe
has something to do with those blowouts, but no one will listen to me.”

Big surprise. If the man ever prayed, I suspected even God had a hard time listening
to him. “If you’re gunning for Dylan, why did you leave that dossier on his desk?”

His eyes widened. “How do you know about that?”

I ignored the question. “Did you access a government database to get all the information
about my family?”

His shoulders sagged further and he whined, “I had nothing to do with putting the
dossier together. I took it from Dylan’s car when we were in west Texas, thinking
it would help me prove that he was involved with the blowouts. But my superiors didn’t
agree and told me to return it without letting on that I had it. I decided to leave
it in his office instead of his car, thinking maybe that would trip him up because
he’d know someone’s on to him.”

It was totally lame, but it fit with Tim’s inept methods of going about his job. “What
are you doing here, at Dylan’s house?” I asked.

“Looking for evidence.”

Still pointing the shotgun at his head, Conaway rolled her eyes. “Ever heard of due
process? Right to privacy? The freakin’
law
? Men like you scare the hell out of me. I really ought to kill you. Think what it’ll
save the government if they don’t have to try you for high crimes and misdemeanors.”

“You can’t prove anything.”

“You’re here, aren’t you?” I stepped aside and waved my cell phone toward the door
to the cellar. “Go on down the stairs. I’m going to truss you up like a turkey, lock
you in, then call the cops.”

He looked panicked. “How are you going to explain why you’re here?”

Conaway pushed the barrel of the gun closer to his head. “With an agent of the Homeland
Security department on the premises, why would they care about us? This is gonna be
big, Tim, my boy. In fact, I predict a political fiasco in the making. There are some
who think your department is bogus and overloaded with unqualified people. You’ll
be the reason Congress votes for a major reorganization.”

I let my gaze fall to his crotch before meeting his eyes again. “I hope they throw
you in prison and a very huge inmate makes you his bitch. Then you’ll know what it
feels like.”

In his eyes, I could see his plan to run before he ducked beneath Conaway’s shotgun
and hauled ass. She started after him, but I stopped her. “Let him go. Maybe if we’re
lucky, we’ll never see him again.”

She turned from the laundry room doorway and her pretty face broke into a wide smile.
She came at me, holding the shotgun by the barrel, and threw her arms around my neck
to hug me tightly. “Are you okay? I nearly peed myself when I saw you on the floor
like that.”

I returned her hug with equal enthusiasm. “I’m okay, thanks to you. Ohmigod, I’ve
never been so happy to hear anyone’s voice.”

We stood there and had a very long mushy moment. I think I cried a little, but it’s
a bit hazy now. After a time, we broke apart and walked back to the den, where I turned
on a lamp. Only then did I ask her why she was in Dylan’s house.

She shrugged. “Call it a hunch. I just figured he had to have something to do with
the blowouts, and you seemed so surprised when they arrested A.J.”

“Have you found anything?”

Walking to the desk, she lifted some papers and handed them to me. “Just this, which
doesn’t point to the blowouts, but it’s interesting all the same.”

It took me a minute to figure out what I was looking at. “This is a map of some petroleum
loading terminals in Saudi Arabia. Ras Tanura.” I glanced up from the map. “What’s
the deal?”

“Not sure. Keep looking.”

I shuffled the papers. Another map, this one of the whole country of Saudi Arabia.
The port at Dhahran was circled in red, and written in the corner was a date: August
1. Behind the map, there were printouts from a commodity broker’s website about commodities
trading, particularly crude oil. The section about oil futures was highlighted and
the print date at the bottom was barely two weeks ago.

“I’m going to put the gun back in Mr. Macho’s gun cabinet,” she said, “and we’d best
skedaddle. I don’t want to get caught here.”

“That’s not your gun?”

She scowled at it. “Of course not. I hate guns.”

“Just curious, but have you really been playing with guns since you were eight years
old?”

Her expression was almost comical. “My Dad wouldn’t let me have a slingshot, he was
so overprotective.”

“Then how did you know how to load and fire it?”

“I had a boyfriend who liked to bird hunt, and I watched him enough times it wasn’t
so hard.”

“You mean, you’ve never fired a shotgun until tonight?”

“Correct.”

“What about Mousha, the Ugandan man?”

“I didn’t shoot him.” She turned to leave the room. “I stabbed him.”

Choking slightly, I glanced at the rather large hole in Dylan’s wall. Tim Fresh was
one lucky man. And Conaway was awesome.

When she came back, we discussed what the maps and the commodities printouts could
mean while we riffled through more of the papers, dug into drawers, and booted up
the computer. That was a dead end, all of his recently viewed sites pointed to porn.
We shut it down and concentrated on his files, stuffed full with paid bills and bank
statements. Other than an enormous American Express bill chock full of charges to
online adult video outlets and liquor stores, there was nothing of interest. Nothing
that would tie Dylan to the blowouts, or any further hints about his interest in Saudi
oil ports and commodities.