Face of Danger (31 page)

“And how do you plan to get that without getting close enough to hear what he says or see what he does?”

He finally got through the next intersection, only for Emmanuel to turn the corner a block away. “Shit,” he mumbled.

“We’d do better on foot,” she said.

“Or you on
that
.” Colt gestured to a skateboarder who cruised up behind them, leaving the idling cars in his dust.

“Oh.” Vivi let out a sigh of pure envy. “Nice Plan B board, dude.”

Colt barely looked at the rider as he mentally navigated the route. “Emmanuel could be meeting Pakpao’s replacement anywhere around here, and I don’t want to lose him. I haven’t heard a ferry whistle yet, so my guess is the next ferry is coming around the lighthouse, but still has to round that horn and slide into the dock. He has time to meet someone.”

“If I had that skateboard I could follow him.”

“Like he wouldn’t recognize you as the impostor in the bank.”

She blew out a breath as he hit the brakes with a frustrated tap. Vivi looked at the store next to them. “Three minutes, Lang. Give me three minutes.”

“To do what?” Or did he not want to know?

“Shop.”

Shop? He turned to stare at her, but she was already
gathering up the bag and had her hand on the door handle. “I’m going into”—she dipped to see the name of the store—“Rags to Riches, only I’m doing just the opposite.”

“You’ve got to change more than your clothes to fool him,” he said, instantly getting her idea and not hating it.

“Trust me, I will. Do you have about three hundred dollars, maybe three fifty?”

“Yeah.” He reached for his wallet, but she put her hand on his arm to stop him. “I don’t need it. I have money. But when you pass that kid on the Plan B, offer it to him for the board. If I know anything about skaters, he’ll take cash. Circle the block, get a read on Emmanuel, and pick me up in three minutes.”

She opened the door and put one foot out before turning to him. “Thanks for not arguing with me on this.”

Before he could do exactly that, she jumped out, slammed the door, and bolted for the entrance of Rags to Riches. He pushed through traffic to catch up with the skater, rolled down his window, made the offer, and had to lose thirty seconds negotiating but got the board and a “Totally dope, dude,” as a thank-you.

Then Colt turned right on the street where Emmanuel had gone and scanned the packs of pedestrians, spotting him on the next block. Still walking, still carrying the bank files.

Colt rounded the corner and in about three minutes, he pulled back up to Rags to Riches as Vivi darted out the door, a bag in hand, and jumped into the backseat.

“Do we still have him?”

“Dead ahead. And the board cost me four.”

“Thief,” she said. “He could get two boards for that much, with titanium wheels.”

“Is that why he called me a dope?”

Vivi just chuckled and yanked out the clothes. “I got the first two items of clothing I could find, but I think they’re clothes Cara wouldn’t be caught dead in. I also found out the next ferry docks in twenty minutes from Martha’s Vineyard. And signed three autographs—ha! They totally believed I was Cara.”

“And you think you can get by Emmanuel?”

“I don’t want to get
by
him. I want to get close to him.” She yanked the yellow thing over her head and grinned at him in the rearview, stripping down to a tiny black bra. “Quit staring, Lang, and follow the target.”

“I can do both,” he said. “Did you get a hat?”

“Better.” She slithered into a short jeans skirt, then pulled a skimpy black T-shirt over her head. “But I am going to have to do this barefoot, because I didn’t have time to get shoes.”

Emmanuel was three blocks ahead now, still in sight, but disappearing fast. Then he paused at a café with tables on the sidewalk, taking a call. “What’s better than a hat?”

“I got these in exchange for an autograph for the owner’s niece, Becky.” She pulled out a pair of orange-handled scissors.

“Seriously?”

“Don’t tell me—I’m under arrest for forgery.”

“You’re going to cut those things?”

She held a chunk of hair to the side and poised the scissors close to her head. “Hell yeah, I am. If he sees this hair, I’m busted. Anyway, my client’s coming home
and, trust me, I’m not getting a million dollars for killing myself trying to tie her to a human trafficking ring.”

“Don’t,” he said quietly, turning around to make his point.

“Don’t cut my hair? I didn’t think you were so into this fake long hair—”

“Don’t kill yourself.” He gave her his harshest look, the one that underscored most orders and got a resounding affirmative from everyone who’d ever worked for him.

Everyone but Vivi. She just grinned and snipped, the first strand of black hair fluttering to the floor. “Careful, stud. You’re starting to like me.”

He was way past starting. Hell, he was getting past
like
. “Just don’t get too close.”

“Then how can I hear what he’s saying?” Snip, snip, snip, like a barber, as hair rained down everywhere.

“Just observe, Vivi. Don’t try and talk to the guy. Just observe.”

She rolled her eyes and brushed her hand over some funky-looking spikes, more chewed than cut.

“You want some help with that?”

“That bad, huh?” She laughed. “I’m good. Drive.”

Traffic moved another two feet, then stopped for pedestrians to cross. Three blocks away, Emmanuel pulled out a seat at the café, still on the phone. When Colt looked at Vivi in the rearview mirror, she was transformed. Sawed-off hair, skater-girl clothes, fire in her eyes.

“It’s you again,” he said, unable to fight the smile. Jesus, he adored her.

“I’m telling you, Lang, don’t look at me that way. There are six thousand better versions of this out in L.A.
They’ll all be dying to strip you out of your golf shirts and khakis.”

But he didn’t want six thousand better versions. He wanted
her
.

“I need sunglasses. Have any?”

“No.”

“What kind of bodyguard doesn’t have sunglasses? Did you not see the movie? Kevin Costner?” She leaned to the right and looked in the rearview mirror. “Damn. I still look like her, don’t I?” She pointed her fingers to her face. “Come on, look at me objectively.”

“I can’t,” he admitted.

“Why not?”

“I’m not objective about you anymore.” His voice came out huskier than he meant it to, probably because there was a vise around his chest.

“Some time to figure that out.”

“I know.” He turned around, confident that Emmanuel wasn’t moving and neither was the traffic. “Lose the lip gloss.”

She met him halfway, slipping her hand behind his neck and pulling her face to hers. “Do your job, Lang.”

He kissed her, hard and long enough to transfer the sticky color to his mouth. Nothing could stop him from adding his tongue, tasting her, pulling her closer. When he broke the kiss, her eyes were closed. “And you need to get rid of the lashes, too.”

Keeping her lids lowered, she grabbed the corner of one false lash and ripped it off, then the other.

“Ouch,” she murmured, flicking the spidery things toward him, then rubbing the remaining makeup to a smudge.

He studied her. “Something’s still not right,” he said.

She made a face, crinkling her nose in frustration.

“That’s it,” he said, tapping the side of her nose. “Your nose thing. Diamond. Stud. Thing.”

“Good call.” Reaching for her bag, she dug into the secret inside pocket, pulled out a red silk pouch she’d gotten in Chinatown, and poured the diamond chip into her hand. “You’re my stud, Lang. This is my nose pierce.”

He cringed when she stabbed it in and snapped the back on. “I’ve always wondered if it hurt to get that.”

She shrugged a little, then ran another quick hand through her chopped-up hair. “Ahhh. I love my own skin.”

So do I.

He covered the jolt of that thought by ruffling her hair, which was as rough as grass and bumpy from the little extension knots close to her scalp. “You look best in your own skin, Vivi.” He let his hand fall, grazing her cheek with his knuckles.

He saw her swallow and fight a response. “I just need to look completely ordinary.”

“There is nothing ordinary about you, but you don’t look remotely like the woman he just saw in the bank, I promise. Are you armed?”

She patted the little skirt and skimpy top. “A weapon hanging off my hip might bring a little too much unwanted attention. But I have this.” She grabbed the board from the passenger seat. “And this.” Slid out her cell phone. “And this.” She tapped her temple.

“Use all three and I’ve got your back. What’s your plan?”

“
Plan
. That’s funny, Lang.” She pointed to the funky letters on the board that spelled out Plan B. “Here’s my plan.”

She dropped the board and kicked it to the uncobblestoned sidewalk, then leaned back for her parting shot. “Just think, Lang, we bring this guy’s operation down and you’ll be king of the FBI. They’ll be begging for you to come be the Special Head Honcho in Charge of Ass Kicking in L.A.”

“Yeah,” he said softly, watching her roll off like a little Ninja.

Except right now, L.A. seemed way, way too far away.

With every bump, nausea threatened. In fact, there was no way Cara could make it across this Sound without puking.

She rested her head against the cool glass of the ferry window, her gaze locked on the squatty lighthouse at the edge of Nantucket in the distance. That did little to quell the roll in her stomach.

She didn’t want to do this, really. But it was the only way out. Sometimes the little people had to suffer so the great ones could have their day.

Even for a great one, she felt very alone.

No Joellen to annoy her, no stylist or publicity person or assistant or second-skin hanger-on to breathe down her neck. No media. No man. No agent, manager, stalkers, or gawkers. She was taking this challenge on her own.

Well disguised for the moment, she bounced along on the ferry boat like a prisoner on her way to the gallows, certain of her decision. This really was the only way to get out of this horrible predicament. And if she handled it right, all the media about the Red Carpet Killer would just disappear—and so would Roman Emmanuel. Into the bottom of Nantucket Harbor.

And he would be the Red Carpet Killer who tried to kill her but she vanquished. Sure, there would be an investigation, but the authorities would believe her. Who would think Cara Ferrari would lie? And she’d have all that evidence to back up the truth.

She’d kill the Red Carpet Killer herself—and become a national legend. If everything went according to her plan, by this time next year she’d be starring in a new film, all her misdeeds a thing of the past.

With a little luck and distraction,
all
of the misdeeds would be forgiven, forgotten—or dead.

Nausea rolled through her again. She tried to use the lighthouse as a focal point to cure the queasiness, but that didn’t work as well as it usually did. Instead she looked around the ferry, into the nearly empty rows of seats, her mind whirring, barely noticing a man in a black leather jacket cruising down the other aisle. As he passed she caught a glimpse of him, then they both looked away.

Oh, God. His eyes were so blue. Not the blue of the water around her, but the icy cold blue of… the man on the beach.

He disappeared into the back and Cara gripped the armrest as the white heat of fear threatened to consume her.

Had he followed her onto this ferry?

She turned to look back, but the bulkhead that housed the bathrooms blocked her view of the back deck. There was a stairwell to the lower level, and he might have gone down.

Was he the person who’d broken into the house and tried to make her death look like an accidental electrocution? That blue-eyed man from the beach? He could ruin
everything! And what would he do here? Lure her to the deck, throw her body over—

He came back up the aisle, brushing by her but not looking. He smelled like the woods and danger, the jacket expensive and loose, but big enough to reveal that he was mercilessly strong.

He sat down a few rows ahead, in the middle section. She could see his right hand resting on faded jeans, a strong hand. A hand designed to close over someone’s throat and squeeze the last breath out of it. A hand designed to reach into that jacket pocket and produce a pistol.

If she didn’t move, he couldn’t just take her out right here in her seat, could he? There were at least a half-dozen people around.

Plus, the
real
Red Carpet Killer would make it look like an accident.

A flash of her body tumbling into some kind of knife-sharp propeller at the back of the ferry burned in her brain. To erase it, she searched for the little lighthouse and estimated how much longer until they reached Nantucket.

There, she would end this. She’d meet Roman, as planned. They’d go to the lighthouse, he’d take her out to the landing, and she’d kill him.

She let her mind play the scene like a movie, refusing to think about Blue Eyes.

It had to be the same man from the beach. She’d never forget those mesmerizing, gas-flame-blue eyes. Or was this her imagination on steroids again?

Then she thought of a way to find out. She opened her bag and slipped her hand into the side pocket, pulling out the white card he had flipped to her on the beach.

Taking her phone, she carefully dialed the number. Then hit Send.

In her ear, the phone rang. He didn’t move. Another ring. He moved—was he reaching in his pocket left handed? Her heart slamming, she refused to hang up. She had to know. She
had
to.

On the fourth ring, he stood very deliberately, his back to her. She saw his left elbow bend, into the jacket pocket.

A gun?

Slowly, he turned, steel blue eyes locking on her, narrowing, pulling something out.

She jumped as the deafening blast of the ferry horn screamed over the Sound, the very moment the man revealed his phone. He thumbed a button and the ringing in her ear stopped.

Then he smiled like Satan himself, revealing white, wolflike teeth.