Pick Your Poison (8 page)

She hardly had the energy to shake her head.

“I work for a woman…” he whispered into a kiss. “Who could get you and your grandmother’s ashes to Paris on a private plane.”

She whimpered and slipped a little.

“You could be there by tomorrow night.” That still wasn’t enough to breathe life back into her. He needed something no one else could possibly give her. He needed… Jeremiah. “And I’d bet six thousand
more
dollars, she can get you the identity of that spy.”

She stiffened and sucked in a breath. Oh, yes, his gut instinct was right on that one. “You… she… could?”

“Would you like to know that, Callie?”

“Yes.”

“Then hold me, just—”

The snap of metal against metal cut him off and they both turned to the door. There it was again, a crack of… hope.

“I think the lock broke,” he said, taking a chance on letting her go. She stayed standing. Barely.

“Don’t move. Less than a minute now.” He pushed the plastic panels away, reached for the handle and shook hard. The door popped with a smack of suction then opened to a darkened—and warm—pantry.

After a quick check of the room, he went back into the freezer just as Callie’s legs buckled. He caught her before she hit the floor, lifting her with strength he didn’t know he had left. “You’re too beautiful to die,” he whispered. “Much too beautiful to die.”

~*~

He could tell her. Benjamin Youngblood could tell Callie the answer to a question that plagued her since Granny had unburdened her heavy conscience and shared her secret the morning that she died. He could answer a question that haunted her great-grandmother to her grave, long after she moved to America, met another man, and finally settled on a farm in rural Florida.

The possibility—however remote— kept Callie breathing. It kept her calm and centered and determined to live as Ben pulled her out of the freezer into blessed, holy, insanely wonderful warmth.

“You need air,” he said, gulping some of his own. “Oxygen. We both do. Come on.”

“Okay, okay.” The relief was almost instantaneous.

She gave him his shirt back, as clarity poured over her, as welcome as the warmth, each of her cells thawing back to normal with every passing minute.

“Let’s go,” he urged, taking her out to the hall.

She managed to stay upright, walking with him, warmer with each step up two flights of stairs. Back in the banquet room, the tables and chairs were being dismantled by a crew of hotel workers. Ben paused, surveying the room, getting his own clarity back.

“We can find her,” he said. “We have to find her.”

“The chef?”

“Angela McManus. That is, if she’s still alive.”

He set off, his arm still around Callie, letting her cling to the man who saved her life, practically tripping as they ran past the partially bussed tables. The tables…

“Wait a second.” She brought them both to a halt near the back of the room. “Just one. I need one.”

She plucked a Black Cherry bloom from a centerpiece and stuffed it into her pocket. One would be enough to start next year’s crop.

He didn’t argue, but took her hand again and led her out, up the escalator, to the lobby doors.

“Oh thank God!” she exclaimed when they stepped outside and sunshine poured over them. “I will never complain about the Florida heat again.”

“C’mon, Callie, run.” He didn’t give her a chance to soak up the glorious sun, dragging her across the street, into the parking garage, and all the way up the stairs to the top level where they’d parked.

With every step, her head throbbed, still bruised from the butt of Monica Stone’s gun. The pain just reminded her that the woman was a killer and if they didn’t move fast, God only knew what fate Mrs. McManus might meet.

Ben peeled his car out of the garage, driving with one hand and punching a number into his cell phone with the other. He threw the phone on the console in speaker mode so Callie could hear it ring.

“I told you no resources,” a woman’s voice came through the speaker, throaty and low and oozing cool confidence.

“Lucy, the governor and his head chef are trying to kill Mrs. McManus and make it look like an assassination gone awry.”

The statement was met with dead silence as Callie and Ben shared a look.

“You’re basing this on your gut?” the woman asked.

“I’m basing it on unequivocal facts, including poison on her plate, a positive ID from a credible witness, and an hour in a freezer where I was locked
with
the credible witness who got an admission of guilt right before the chef tried to put a bullet in her.” He paused for a moment. “And, just so you know, Lucy, I’m on speaker with Callie Parrish, a… foreign substance expert I’ve brought on the case.” He threw her a look. “Callie, this is my boss, Lucy Sharpe.”

Lucy coughed softly.

“Former boss,” Ben corrected. “And future boss.”

After a beat, Lucy said, “Let me double check the governor’s schedule.”

Callie stole a look at Ben, who drove with his attention riveted on the road ahead, his jaw clenched. He looked strong. Amazing. Confident. And, of course, gorgeous.

Her heart was definitely… thawing.

Granny Belle would love him and, funny thing, so could—

“They’ve gone to a tri-county tea party at the West Villages retirement community just outside Tallahassee,” Lucy said. “Mrs. McManus is the featured speaker.”

Ben shot the car into the right lane of traffic, barreling toward the interstate, barely glancing in the rear view mirror.

“I’ll send the exact address to your phone and you can program directions.”

“Does the itinerary say if Chef Monica Stone is with him at the event?” he asked.

Lucy didn’t answer, but Callie could hear the soft click of a keyboard in the background. “She’s there, coordinating the menu, which brings me to something else.”

“Yeah?” He cut off a truck and ran a yellow light to get to the I-10 entrance ramp.

“The report from the lab came in on the poetry book you found at the rope-line with the black roses and pepper jelly.”

Callie sat up straight at the mention of the roses, leaning closer to the phone.

“Turns out they aren’t poems at all. One of our former NSA guys broke a simple code and in every poem is a formula for creating a poison from ordinary household items, different foods, and many flowering plants.”

Callie gasped softly and Ben slammed on the accelerator, flying through another—no, that one was actually red.

“I’m on my way to the tea party,” he said simply. “Back up would be nice.”

“I understand. And, Callie, I hope you know how grateful we are to have your foreign-substance expertise.”

“You want to thank her?” Ben asked. “Then you can do a little historical research on her behalf.”

“Just let me know what you need, Ben.”

Callie looked at him, a smile pulling. He could really do this? This Lucy woman could really find out Jeremiah’s real identity… the man who was Callie’s great-grandfather by birth?

She reached over and touched Ben’s hand, curling her fingers through his.

“I’ll check in, Luce,” he said, smiling at Callie. “When you give me my next assignment as a Bullet Catcher.”

“How do you know I will?” she countered.

“Something in my… gut.”

She laughed softly. “Good luck, Ben. Do what needs to be done.”

“I always do.” He ended the call and inhaled slowly, clearly satisfied with how that went. “She won’t let me back on staff until we finish this job.”

“Then, let’s do it.”

He smiled at her. “Damn, I like you more every minute, farm girl.”

She grinned back. “Darn, I like you, too.”

Chapter Eight

Ben parked the car in the main lot of a sprawling complex called West Villages, taking a minute to study his passenger.

“I know this is more than you counted on this morning, Callie. You wanted money and didn’t plan to risk your life to get it.”

She shrugged, all the color back in her cheeks again and plenty of light in her big blue eyes. “Beats farming.”

“Yeah? You interested in a job?”

“As the foreign substance expert?” She laughed softly. “Heck, yeah, if I could sell the farm, finally go to college, and earn a degree. I could be a… what is the company called again?”

“The Bullet Catchers.”

“That has a nice, dangerous ring to it.”

“So I guess you’re not going to opt to stay in the car for this job.”

She gave him an elbow. “You guess right, pal. You need me.”

“I sure do.” He reached a hand around her neck, pulling her closer. “I need you,” he repeated, kissing her hard on the lips, then relaxing and letting the connection turn hotter, slower, and much more meaningful.

Under the kiss, she smiled. “You really are the devil.”

He pulled away, wiping a stray caramel-colored strand from her face and letting himself get lost in blue eyes about the same color as the sky behind her. “It’s my only flaw.”

“I noticed.”

One more kiss and they were out, holding hands as they walked to the front entrance.

“Shit,” he mumbled, glancing at the few retirement community employees and seeing a complete lack of security professionals. “Totally lax security.”

“But now you know why,” Callie said. “The less security, the easier for him to do the deed and pop off his wife.”

“And that’s why all the overt clues and threats of assassination. I bet he planted every one, all to be used as evidence that he was innocent later on. All lies, just like he was going to claim I went after you and we both got stuck and died when the old freezer malfunctioned.”

She snorted smugly. “Surprise, surprise, Governor. We are
so
not dead.”

“And he doesn’t know what you look like,” Ben reminded her. “So once we worm our way into this event, I’ll stay in the back and you…” His voice trailed off.

“I what?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Some things you have to figure out as you go along. You’re pretty good at that.”

“Yep.” She gave his hand a squeeze as they worked toward the front entrance and he flashed his bodyguard’s license and the campaign badge he’d held onto from the last event he worked for McManus. And they were in.

They strolled around the room where the speech would take place, but behind the closed doors of a community room, afternoon tea was just getting underway.

“We have to get in there,” Ben said, eyeing the lone guards at three different doors and not recognizing any of them. The few bodyguards they had were hired hands, not even professionals on the company staff. Not second-rate—these clowns were tenth-rate.

They didn’t even have a metal detector at the door, but Callie was right. McManus didn’t want strong security. In fact, he’d hired the worst security he could find… after he’d fired the best.

“She’s the one,” Callie said, indicating a female guard by the farthest door, who seemed more interested in checking her cell phone than anyone who approached the door. “Go talk to her. Stand in front of her. Melt her with those bedroom eyes.” She nudged him. “Use your devil-given gifts, Ben Youngblood.”

“Okay, I’ll flirt, and when you get in your number one priority is to make sure Mrs. McManus doesn’t eat anything.”

With that, they separated, and Ben headed over to the woman, who was an easy mark. In two minutes, he had her talking, laughing, and sharing pictures of the governor on her cell phone and ignoring the door behind her. That was enough for Callie to slip into the community room when someone else stepped out.

A minute later, Ben changed his strategy with the female guard.

“Let me go in there,” he said, lowering his voice, turning serious, and getting a little closer.

Some color rose on her cheeks. “I can’t. You know I can’t.”

“You can.” He brushed his knuckles over her shoulder. “I’m a huge fan of McManus’s and I just want one picture. I’ll stay right back here. You can stand with me.” Whatever it took, he had to see what was going on in that room. “I’d like that,” he added.

She looked side to side, then nodded. “One minute,” she said, holding up a finger. “Then you leave.”

When she pushed open the door, Ben instantly took a mental snapshot of the layout, his gaze landing on Governor and Mrs. McManus side by side at a round table in the middle of the room.

Although everyone was getting food and tea from the side buffets, a server had just set a plate in front of the governor’s wife.

He spotted Callie, noticing her blouse and skirt blended in well-enough with the servers wearing white tops and black pants. When their eyes met, Callie nodded toward the governor’s table, her brows lifted in question.

Was she going to stop Angela McManus from eating? Or just check out what was on her plate?

He lifted his own brow, silently giving her the go ahead for whatever she had in mind. Go with your gut, Callie Parrish. He had a feeling hers was as good as his.

Instantly, she slid her hand under a large tray of discarded water glasses and coffee cups, hoisting it over her head and moving like she’d been a waitress all her life.

No one even gave her a second look.

She strolled across the room, headed directly for the governor’s table, with one more look at Ben. He nodded and, wouldn’t you guess, the little bodyguard next to him caught it.

“What’s going on?” she asked.

“Nothing.” He didn’t take his eyes off Callie.

“Something’s going on,” the woman said, bristling next to him. “Who is she? Who are you?” She raised her voice just loud enough to turn a few heads, including the governor’s.

McManus’s jaw dropped like he saw a ghost. “What the—?”

Just that second, Callie reached the table, inches from Mrs. McManus, who picked up her fork to scoop up a bite of food. Callie jerked the whole tray forward, dumping all the glasses and coffee cups all over Mrs. McManus, who shrieked and jumped, along with half the room.

“I’m so sorry!” Callie called out, lowering the tray to get closer, then picking up a glass on the table and dousing her food just in case it wasn’t wet enough.