Face of Danger (20 page)

But, no, she had been too busy waging her inner sex wars to think about security.

Still humming from the encounter, tight and needy and so utterly dissatisfied with her choices and her issues and her brain-versus-body battle, she walked to the tree line and listened. A little doggie paw cracked a branch.

“Stella?” she called, glancing over her shoulder, half expecting to see Lang appear from the other side. Surely he realized she’d come over here now. “Stella! Come here, you little beast.”

She wiggled through the trees toward the sound. “Stella. I know you hate me, but I’ll hand you over to your true love.”

The dog barked once, a good fifty feet away in the thick of the trees. Then she whimpered helplessly again, the sound of real pain.

“Stella?” Was she hurt? Vivi moved toward the sound, stones and sticks prodding the flimsy flip-flops, cold air and stiff branches brushing her nearly bare skin. She was dressed for sex in the bathroom, not dog searches in the woods.

The whimpering was louder now, and more than a little desperate. She pushed at pine needles and shook off a spiderweb—more of those bastards—and headed to the noise.

“Lang!” she hollered. “She’s over here. I think she’s—”

The gunshot shocked her into silence, so close she automatically threw herself to the ground. The next one made her roll as a bullet whizzed right by her head.

She dove for the cover of trees, scraping her arms and legs on pine needles, a scream of terror trapped in her throat. Her hands hit something soft just as the next bullet ricocheted off the trunk of a tree. This time she did shriek a little and so did the dog she’d landed on.

Grabbing Stella, Vivi started to get up to run, but froze at the sound of footsteps, hard, fast, and headed in her direction. Folding up to make as small a target as she could, she rolled deeper under the pine, earth and dirt chafing her face and filling her mouth, her whole body around the tiny dog.

Here it comes, she thought. The next shot.

I’m going to die.
Out here, in the bogs of Nantucket, holding a dog, pretending to be someone else. She was going to die.

Damn
. She should have never said no to Lang. Now she was going to—

The bullet hit the soft peat of the ground, so close she heard the thump. Inches away.

Cradling the dog in both arms, she scrambled forward, losing a flip-flop as she crawled army style under the lowest branches of pine, having no idea where she was going but away from the son of a bitch with a gun.

She stopped long enough to hear branches snap, footsteps hitting dirt. Away or toward her? She had no idea. She wanted to scream for Lang again, but that would give away her location.

Instead, she gripped the dog and dug her elbows and knees into the ground, creeping as fast as she could without crushing Stella, who was either too smart or too scared to bark.

Damn it, she wasn’t going to die. She was going to live. And so was this stupid dog.

And the next time that man offered her his body, she’d take it instead of letting some memory ruin everything for her. The vow propelled her forward, just as another gunshot sent a bullet whizzing through the pine trees above her head.

Someone was running, snapping branches, breathing hard. Lang? Or the shooter?

She lifted her head to look. The pine trees blocked any chance of moonlight, so she might as well have been blind.

She made it five feet, then ten, rounded another tree and suddenly the earth fell away at her side, an unexpected hill that made her slide, slip, and roll like a log, losing her grip on the dog and holding in a shriek until she slammed against another tree.

“Vivi!” Lang was on her in the next second, full body coverage, flipping on his back, weapon aimed into the night.

“Someone shot at me,” she said with a soft cry.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes, but someone’s out here.”

Stella leaped at both of them, and Vivi grabbed her, closing into a ball again, her hands automatically searching Stella for a wound.

“Listen!” Lang demanded in a harsh whisper.

They both stilled, stopping every sound, even their breathing, which was not easy considering that they were both winded.

“He’s gone,” she whispered. “I swear I heard him running away.” Or
her
running away. Was Mercedes capable of that kind of attack?

More footsteps and voices broke the night. In seconds the other FBI agents were there, taking orders from Lang, fanning out, protecting her.

“Get her into the house,” Lang ordered one of them, his hands on Vivi’s shoulders as he passed her off to Agent Iverson. “And stay with her every second. We’re going to find this bastard.”

•    •    •

“Goddamn you, Jo.” Cara stood over her sister and resisted the urge to pick up what was left of her last lemon-drop martini and pour it over her face. But even that wouldn’t wake her. “I don’t want to be alone tonight!”

Joellen didn’t budge. She lay on the sofa, facedown, her mouth open just enough that drool would slide out any second.

Fuck. Cara had let Marissa go to spend the night with Bridget because Jo was getting looser and looser and God only knew what she’d say if Marissa pushed the wrong button.

But if she’d known her sister was going to pass out, she’d have kept Marissa here for company overnight.

Now she was all alone.

Huffing in disgust, she flounced away, and started what had become an obsessive nighttime routine, no matter who was here. Three times, she checked the windows and locks, reset the alarm, and made sure every drape and blind in the little house was pulled tight.

The ritual took five minutes, and gave her small comfort. If anyone came within twenty-five feet of the house, an alarm would blare, lights would flash, and all hell would break loose.

She could finally relax a little.

She paused in the bathroom door and surveyed the disaster that was Joellen in a too-small bathroom.

“What a pig.” She started to pick up one of the makeup bags vomiting cosmetics and hair products, then threw it back down amidst the flat iron, blow dryer, hand mirror, a bra, underpants, and, of course, the ubiquitous empty martini glass.

The bathtub was clean, and that was all that mattered.

She just wanted to climb in, get burned by hot water, and figure out just how long she could play the game of cat-and-mouse with a man she’d once thought she loved. Back when she was young, foolish, and ambitious.

Now she was just ambitious.

And even if she used all those flaws as excuses, they wouldn’t hold water with the public. Celebrities are constantly forgiven for their indiscretions, for needing rehab or having affairs, for picking up prostitutes or shoplifting.

But for selling little kids into slavery?

No excuse for her role in that crime, no matter how far behind her it was now, would fly. So she had to stay the course. There was only one thing to do when someone found out.

She swallowed hard. She’d keep Roman’s secret if he kept hers—that was their delicate balance. But now the balance was upset, and the scales tipped in his favor.

She shed her clothes and barely glanced in the mirror, bending over to figure out the faucet, turning the hot water on full blast.

“Somewhere in this mess there has to be some bath gel.” While the tub filled, she gingerly dug through the bottles, tubes, and makeup cases, knocking a few things to the tile floor in the process. Finally, she found some mimosa-scented bath gel.

Mimosa as in champagne and orange juice, not the flower, naturally.

“Even her soap is booze,” Cara said as she poured and created a mountain of white bubbles.

She tested the water, which was fabulously hot, and slipped one foot in, nearly sliding on the slick surface.
She grabbed the towel rack, her body weight almost pulling it out of the wall as she righted herself.

“Jesus Christ, how about some traction on the tub, people?” Taking a second to get her balance and make sure she didn’t fall on her ass, she dipped her body into the hot, bubbly water. When she lay down, her feet touched the tub at one end and she was still almost sitting up.

Not exactly the luxurious Jacuzzi she had in L.A. or in her Nantucket house.

Well,
Roman’s
Nantucket house. He’d built it. He owned it. Just like he—

Everything went dark.

“Oh my God!” She popped her eyes open, the blackness and complete lack of sound like a blanket over the house. “Joellen! The fucking power went out! Jo!”

Unless… someone cut it.

Chills scrambled up her body as she sat straighter, slapping her hand over her mouth and cursing herself for being so stupid as to yell. A drunken Joellen wouldn’t hear her, but someone else might. Someone who’d snipped wires and shut down the electricity and the alarm.

Maybe he’d kill Joellen, not her. In the dark, would he know if he had the right sister? Would he even know she was in the house? In this tub? Not if she stayed very still, very quiet.

She closed her eyes, trying to listen. Was that a creak? The wind? A door slowly opening? Her body started to tremble, cold despite the blistering water, scared right down to her bones.

Without the hum of a single electrical appliance, the house was unnaturally silent. She gritted her teeth to keep from making a sound. Was that a footstep? A
hinge squeaking? The snap of a floorboard? Was someone breathing nearby?

She closed her eyes again to block everything but her hearing. Was that just the sound of her own terrified breaths? She couldn’t tell anymore. Her heart walloped against her ribs, so loud it was like a bass drum in her head, her pulse so crazy she could feel her veins move as they thrummed blood and adrenaline.

A bitter taste rose in her throat but she managed a painful swallow.
That
was definitely a footstep. And another.

Oh, God. As silently as possible, she opened her mouth and breathed in, filling her lungs and letting the slippery surface slide her ass down the tub, dunking her head under.

Please don’t find me. Please don’t find me. Please don’t—

Someone was screaming! Even through the water she could hear the high-pitched, endless wail. Joellen? Was Joellen being beaten and stabbed by someone who thought he was killing Cara Ferrari?

Her lungs started to burst, but she refused to rise. She didn’t want to die. She’d rather hide like a coward and let her sister take the knife in her place.

The screaming wouldn’t stop! It was one long shriek. Inhuman. Her chest ached with the need for air, her head light and spinning, her grasp on life almost gone.

She shot up to the surface and opened her mouth to suck in air and—

The lights were on. The whole house was lit again, and there was noise. So much noise! That must have been what she’d heard: the alarm wailing in a syncopated screech.

She pushed herself up, slipping on the porcelain and crying out as she fell back down, another sound breaking
through her consciousness. A mechanical sound. A familiar buzz. A high-pitched hum.

The hair dryer was on!

Perched perilously at the edge of the vanity, right above the tub. She reached, but slipped again and saved herself from falling by grabbing the countertop, knocking over the empty martini glass and watching as it crashed to the floor. She jerked back from the flying shards, the move sending the hair dryer right over the edge.

For one time-suspended horrific second, she stared at the machine, tumbling in slow motion, clunking to the edge of the tub and sort of resting, its tipping point not yet decided. To the floor or—

Into the tub!

“Aaaahh!” She jumped over the side of the tub, grabbing the towel rack for help, ripping it out of the drywall, her kneecaps cracking on the hard tile floor, cut on broken glass.

“Karen!” Joellen stood in the doorway. “Oh my God!”

Behind Cara, the dryer bobbed in the water, sending blue and white arcs of electrical sparks into the air before the appliance shut off.

The alarm suddenly stopped, the only sound Cara’s agonizing breaths.

“Holy crap, that thing could have killed you,” Joellen said.

No shit. “Who set off the alarm?”

“Oh, I did, damn it. I wanted to go out for a smoke. Let me call the alarm company.” She stumbled away.

“Who cut off all the electricity?” Cara demanded.

Joellen stuck her head back in. “I was asleep,” she said. “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

Cara just stood there, naked, terrified, not even sure what had just happened.

Jo pointed to the water. “Can you believe how close you just came to continuing the Red Carpet Curse?”

Cara just shook her head, words impossible.

“Now that would have been ironic.”

“You have no idea,” Cara whispered.

M
ercedes didn’t answer her door. Vivi pounded repeatedly and was just about ready to suggest Special Agent Iverson shoot the lock off when the door slowly opened and Mercedes appeared, wearing a housecoat, slippers, and a silver net over her hair. Still, she had the nerve to give Vivi a look of disgust and dismay, lingering on the happy-face boxers as if they offended her. She barely glanced at Special Agent Iverson standing behind Vivi.

“What?” she asked.

“You didn’t hear the gunshots?” Vivi asked.
Or were you outside firing?

Mercedes lifted her hands to show an orange earplug held in each. “I was sound asleep,” she said.

“Is there a door to the outside anywhere in here?” Vivi demanded.

“No, there is not.”

Vivi tilted her head. “Stop lying, Mercedes.”

Under her rough complexion, she paled. “There is a way to another part of the house, but not outside.”

Vivi managed not to look smug. “Would you please let us in so we can examine it? Someone is on the grounds, shooting—at me, I might add—and I need to see if an intruder could get in or out of this basement any other way.”

“Come with me,” she said, indicating the stairs. Vivi and the FBI agent followed, taken on a tour that Vivi had already experienced firsthand: through the pantry, down the stairs, to the closet, all through the tunnels.