A Rare Chance (22 page)

“The chase?”

“As in tell me what you want now, tonight.”

Suddenly it all became so very clear to her. What she wanted. Yes. Now, tonight. Which would inevitably lead to tomorrow and would be okay. She believed that. Be responsible to herself now, understand herself now, and what needed to be would be.

Difficult, however, to explain to a man in nothing but close-fitting jeans.

She smiled, teasing, edging away from the doorjamb. “I was just thinking, being as serious minded about this sort of thing as I've always been, it just so happens that I've never ‘cut to the chase.' Not that I'm a virgin. I don't mean that. But I've never—well, Cam, I've never been chased.”

His eyes had glazed over as if he expected her to talk all night.

Which gave her the opening she needed.

Ducking down low, she shot off into the living room, and Cam Yeager being Cam Yeager, he reacted. Boom, just like that. He got it. Woman in a bathrobe. One-thirty in the morning. Chase.

He caught up with her in her bedroom, just as she'd planned.

And his mouth found hers, and they kissed again and again, each kiss sweeter and sexier and more enticing than the one before it, until, out of breath now, her bathrobe shed, they fell upon her bed. Cam dug the heels of his hands into the soft covers on either side of her head and pushed himself up off her, gazing down into her eyes. “I've never…”

He didn't finish. He didn't have to. What he'd said was enough. He kissed her again, and her lips parted as he lowered himself onto her, his jeans barely containing him. She felt the weight of him between her legs. Her nightshirt had scrunched up to her waist in their tumble onto her bed, leaving nothing but a thin film of cotton between them. She felt her own moistness. Her heat. Her need. Her thighs inched further apart.

He moaned into her mouth, his tongue plunging deep. He grabbed at her hips, kneading the firm flesh, pushing her nightshirt up higher, uncovering her breasts to his touch. He circled her nipples with his thumbs. Impossibly, she felt him grow bigger between her legs, ready to burst out of his jeans.

The nightshirt came up over her head, and she was naked.

He gazed at her. She didn't flinch.

“Gabriella…”

“Make love to me, Cam,” she whispered. “Make love to me all night.”

His mouth descended to her breasts, and he took one nipple between his lips, licked, tasted, teased. She wanted him. Ached for him. He had to know it. Then his hand eased between them, finding the wet heat between her legs, flicked gently, probed, his touch drowning out everything but how much she wanted him. She wrapped her arms around his strong, hard back and slipped her fingers into the waistband of his jeans.

“Oh, Gabriella,” he said, his fingers not letting up.

His buttocks were firm and sleek. The snap on his jeans had come undone, and she got them down to his thighs easily, could feel his maleness thrusting against her thigh. He took a deep, gasping breath.

In the next instant, the jeans were off, and they'd seen to protection, and he was inside her, hard and hot and thrusting wildly. It was everything she'd imagined, dreamed of, believed could and would happen from the moment she'd first seen him at Fanueil Hall—even if she had been unable to admit it was what she'd wanted.

Her fingers tightened on his buttocks. She willingly gave herself up to wave after wave of sensations washing over her, robbing her of thought, of anything but the feel of Cam and her response to him. When her release came, he was whispering to her, holding her, enveloping her with his strength and his presence, and it didn't matter that she couldn't make out what he was saying. She understood it. On a gut level, she understood that he was urging her to trust him, let go, be everything she wanted to be.

For those endless minutes in his arms, she did.

He cried out her name when his own climax came, and she smiled, wanting nothing more. Tomorrow, she thought. Tomorrow she'd care about Lizzie's package and whether she should show it to him and discover what demons her friend was fighting. She'd care about her job and what to do about Scag when her own money ran out. She'd care about all of it tomorrow.

She ran one palm up Cam's smooth, muscled back, slick with perspiration. Definitely. Tomorrow she'd care about tomorrow.

U
sing a set of keys he'd found during an unsuccessful search of the Fairfax house on Beacon Hill, Pete Darrow let himself into Gabriella's apartment on Marlborough Street. It was an unseasonably cool afternoon, but clear and sunny. He didn't have a clue whether Gabriella or Yeager was there, but he didn't give a damn. He'd pussy-footed around long enough. Right now he cared only about finding Lizzie Fairfax and her diary.

He'd seen Joshua that morning up on Reading Point. Not a happy camper, Joshua. “You knew, didn't you?” he'd asked. “About this Tony Scagliotti character. You knew he was in town, that Lizzie had brought him here and didn't tell me.”

“What difference does it make if I did or I didn't?”

“It means I can't trust you.”

Darrow had laughed. Of course the stupid shit couldn't trust him. Darrow was trying to
blackmail
him.

“Scagliotti's a certifiable lunatic so far as I'm concerned. If the papers find out he's in Boston, back with his daughter, they'll be all over them for interviews, talk-show appearances. I had no idea Lizzie was so mixed up with him. I'll look like a fool for not knowing who I'd gotten myself engaged to. You know I prefer to keep a low profile.”

“That's how come you keep a couple Uzis around,” Darrow had said.

Joshua hadn't reacted, unusual for him. “Gabriella's history now, for sure. It's simply a question of how we get rid of her. Titus is hedging his bets, but with Lizzie doing this damned disappearing act and Gabriella clearly lying on her behalf—well, I'll find a way to force her out. Titus will come 'round in the end.”

Darrow had grinned nastily. “I love corporate America.”

“I should have had this information sooner, Darrow. That's your job, remember?”

The guy did have his illusions, Darrow gave him that much.

Gabriella Starr's apartment was quiet, its creams and beiges and good taste about what he'd expected. The lights were all out, the windows shut against the chilly breeze. Nice place. Nothing Reading-esque about it, but nice. He did a quick check of the kitchen, the bathrooms, the two bedrooms. Both beds were made. He wondered if Yeager and Gabriella were sleeping together. She wasn't Cam's type outside of bed, but Darrow would guess he'd like her just fine in bed.

He found the stairs up to the roof and figured he'd have a look up there, make sure no one was around, before he began a serious search. Ol' Joshua did have his knickers all in a knot over his missing fiancée and especially her missing diary. Thought he was in control of the situation, or at least of Darrow. Little did he know. Until they found her and her diary, Joshua wasn't in control and neither was Darrow. Lizzie Fairfax was.

Knowing Lizzie, she'd stashed the diary with Gabriella.

Knowing Gabriella, she'd tucked it somewhere safe and kept quiet about it because Lizzie had made her promise.

Darrow prided himself on his judgment of character. He knew how people thought. It was his gift.

At times, it was also a curse.

Lizzie, Lizzie,
he thought.
You wouldn't hurt me, would you?

Yeah, she would. She was scared and she didn't understand what was going on, and together that made her dangerous.

He climbed out onto the deck, taking in the expensive furniture, the stone pots. A quick glance at the view. He could see glimpses of the Charles. Probably could watch the fireworks on the Esplanade from up here. But the orchid greenhouse drew his attention. Quite the hobby Gabriella had. He pushed open the creaky aluminum door.

A scrawny old man was at a messy worktable. “Who the hell are you?” he demanded.

Darrow swore. He should have expected the father. Tony Scagliotti. Grade A fruitcake.

“Pipe down,” Darrow told him. “I just want to take a look around.”

“You can take a look around somewhere else. Out.”

Out? Like he had any say?

Darrow smirked. “I don't think so.”

The old man snatched up a potting tool that had sharp, curving hooks and could probably gut an elephant and came at him with it. Darrow couldn't believe it. He side-stepped the old geezer and popped him one, knocking him out cold. He went down in a bony heap, and Darrow set to work. The old man would identify his assailant, but that didn't worry Darrow much at all because Yeager would already know who was responsible, even without an eyewitness. And it was only Yeager who worried him.

Yeager, who wanted to save his ex-partner from himself.

Too late, pal.

“Screw it,” he muttered, shoving around plants and pots and big urns of distilled water. Starving people in the world and these idiots were spending a fortune on frigging orchids.

Ten minutes later, sweating his ass off in the third section of the greenhouse, surrounded by the cloying smell of orchids and the oppressive heat, he found a padded envelope stuck behind a churning fan that didn't cool the air, only kept it moving. Hell of a hobby. Some of the orchid blossoms weren't all that impressive, so far as he could see, and an orchid not in bloom was nothing but scraggly roots and ugly leaves. A couple of them looked like some science experiment gone awry.

Not that he gave a damn. He had just found Lizzie's journal and her pictures of her fiancé's secret weapons arsenal.

Tucking the package under his arm, he moved back through the two cooler sections of the greenhouse. At the worktable, the old man was just coming to. Darrow decided not to pop him again in case he had a heart attack. No point going up on murder charges. He scooted back downstairs and out.

He set the package on the car seat beside him. Joshua Reading wasn't getting hold of it, not until Darrow had had a chance to check out the contents. Then he'd see about sweating the sick bastard about what Lizzie had to say about him, be it about grenade-launchers and such or just good old-fashioned kinky sex. Either way, Darrow thought, starting up the car, Lizzie's journal could be his ticket to the good life. Finally.

But Lizzie was still out there, waiting for Joshua Reading to find her.

Darrow made a sound of pure disgust. Lizzie first. Blackmail later. It maybe wasn't the smartest plan in terms of his self-interest, but who needed to know?

 

After walking through the Public Garden three different times, three different ways, attempting to clear her mind and body of Cam Yeager and focus instead on what was going on with Lizzie, Gabriella returned home to her apartment. She would get Lizzie's package from in back of the fan and open it. Then she would decide whether or not to show the contents to Cam.

She admitted—grudgingly—that he was right. The promise she'd made to Lizzie had been exacted under pressure and was not in Lizzie's best interests or her own.

But she found Scag gray-faced at the kitchen table, applying a bag of ice to his head. His hands were trembling. She lunged toward him, afraid he would pass out. But he only regarded her with irritation.

“I'm too old for this shit,” he said.

“What happened? Did you fall, did someone hit you? Scag—” Her heart was pounding, her throat constricted. Tears welled in her eyes as she took in her father's bad color, his obvious pain. She'd wandered off this morning to clear her head and left him to his fate. “I'm calling an ambulance.”

“Now just hold on,” he said, grimacing. “I can't afford any damned ambulance and I don't need one. That ex-cop friend of Yeager's cold-cocked me. What the hell's his name?”

“Pete Darrow.” Her voice cracked with tension. Darrow had been here, inside her apartment. He hadn't given up. He wouldn't.

“Yeah, that's him. Thought he'd killed me. Christ, I don't have a dime in insurance. You'd have to fork over to bury me.”

Gabriella ignored his gallows humor, a cold determination propelling her to the phone. “I've had it. I'm calling the police.”

“Whoa, there, missy,” Scag said, removing the ice pack. A large lump on his right temple was already blossoming into shades of blue, purple, and red. “I've had worse bumps than this. I'd just as soon not involve the authorities if I can help it. You know cops. They'll want to know who did what when, what I saw. They'll be all over the orchids, and then you'll have to explain me, and Lizzie's name'll come up for sure, and it'll be a goddamned mess. None of it'd endear you to the Readings or help Lizzie.”

Gabriella managed a weak smile. “You'll never change, Scag.”

He started to grin, but the pain was clearly too much. “Call your cop buddy instead.”

Gritting her teeth, Gabriella dialed Cam's number. She didn't understand why she had it memorized. She didn't understand any of what was going on between the two of them. She got his machine and left a message, trying not to sound panicked. “Darrow's been to my apartment. He knocked Scag on the head, but he's not seriously hurt. I'm here with him.”

When she'd hung up, Scag asked, “Where do you think he is?”

“Probably on Darrow's heels. I'm going to check the roof, see if he did any damage. You'll be okay for five minutes?”

He scowled. Pain usually just made him grumpy. “Funny how I managed to get along for decades without you.”

“I haven't the slightest idea how you did it,” she teased, but her pulse was racing as she charged upstairs, two and three steps at a time.

She pushed through to Number Three, nearly knocking over the fan when she checked behind it.

“
Damn.
”

Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Lizzie should never have trusted her with the damned thing.

Maybe she'd wanted Gabriella to have it in case something happened to her, or as collateral to prevent something
from
happening. Maybe she'd just wanted Gabriella to know she had something exciting and dramatic and had never anticipated trouble. Gabriella simply didn't know.

Now the package was gone and Pete Darrow had it.

She trudged back down to the kitchen, accepting that she would have to tell Cam. He'd go all cop on her and tell her she'd been a jackass. She'd known Darrow was a professional. She should have done a better job of stashing the package. She should have let him open it. Instead she'd endangered her father and left it for Pete Darrow to find.

Cam buzzed. Gabriella let him in.

“Well, what a mess,” he said after checking on Scag in the kitchen. “Darrow get the package?”

It was a pro forma question, as he knew the answer already. Gabriella nodded glumly. She was an ass. Untrustworthy. When it came right down to it, she hadn't taken Lizzie seriously.

“And we don't even know what's in it,” Cam said, all business. “Cute. I guess I can kick into high gear, chase him down, and get it from him—provided he's still got it.”

“Why would he get rid of it?”

“Depends on what's in it. If it's anything incriminating to him, he'd dump it in the Charles. If it's incriminating to Joshua—well, that's another matter. Point is, we don't know what's in it.”

Scag set his ice pack on the table. He was still pale, but a little color had crept back into his face and he was looking smug. Weak, still, but smug. “I figured something like this was bound to happen when I found that damned thing this morning.”

Cam and Gabriella both looked at him.

“I was keeping an eye out for it, like you asked, Cam.” He waved off Gabriella's expected protest before she could make a sound. “Found it behind the fan in Number Three when I was back there making room for some potting mix I wanted to store.”

“Then Darrow didn't get it,” Gabriella said, a surge of adrenaline giving her fresh energy.

“No, he got it. I put it back where I found it—after I'd opened it and had a peek inside. It was some kind of diary or journal. Anyway, I hadn't made any promises to anybody, so I took the thing around the corner and had a copy made. Messed up my schedule and cost me a bloody fortune. I didn't fool with it, just retaped it as best I could. I must've been back twenty, thirty minutes when that goon showed up.”

Cam maintained his cool, professional demeanor, but Gabriella could tell he was excited. “Where's the copy now?”

“I tucked it in with the fern root and moss up by my worktable in Number One. Figured I'd give it to you next time you turned up.”

Gabriella glared at her father. “What do you mean, give it to him? What about me?”

The old man shrugged, unperturbed. “You're not rational where Lizzie Fairfax is concerned. You've known each other too damned long. You can't be objective.”

“As if you can?” Gabriella snorted. “That package was my responsibility, Scag, and I'll be damned if I'm going to have my own father sneaking around behind my back.”

He leveled his dark eyes on her. “I don't recall you mentioning to me you'd hidden a package right under my nose that some goon'd be willing to knock me on my ass to get his hands on.” He didn't sound particularly annoyed; he was just setting the record straight.